


953 revolutions around the sun and other ordinary miracles

by Magnolia822



Series: Aziraphale and Crowley Bingo Fun [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale patron saint of the gay community, Banter, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Two Penises (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Emotions, Established Relationship, F/F, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, God Problems, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hemipenes, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oh my god they were suffragettes, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Semi-Public Sex, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Switching, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Train Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are lovers; they're also adversaries. They have an arrangement, but neither of them can risk admitting what it means.Written for the Good Omens Bingo fill, "sex through the ages."When had the demon become so important to him? Had it been in Rome? Or even earlier? Their first night together – that first snow. Crowley had been so wonderful, and Aziraphale had been shocked at his own behavior. He had thought he would go off and repent – beg for the Almighty’s forgiveness, but he never had.It didn’t seem quite fair for them to meet and get on the way they did, if it were wrong. Why would the Almighty throw them together if by their very natures, they must forever be apart?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Aziraphale and Crowley Bingo Fun [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114559
Comments: 72
Kudos: 129
Collections: Good Omens Bingo 2021





	1. England, 1066

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow up to the one shot 'A First Time for Everything.' You don't necessarily need to read it beforehand, but you may want to in order to understand a few references. 
> 
> A few notes: 
> 
> *Graphic Violence warning is just for the first chapter - and it's not super graphic - just a description of a wound. Otherwise no archive warnings apply.
> 
> **Aziraphale and Crowley will have a variety of gender presentations and mostly male pronouns (but occasionally female). 
> 
> ***I'll update twice a week. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta Silly Goose for her cheerleading, support, and eagle eye.

So it was all over. William of Normandy had defeated Harold, and the Anglo-Saxon troops who had not been destroyed with him were routed from the field. There would be a new king in England – a conqueror – and Aziraphale was depressed. 

He’d done his best, of course. He’d advised Harold that going into battle posed a serious risk to his crown, not to mention his life, but Harold had laughed him off – he wouldn’t be seen as a coward in front of his men. So, he was dead, and so was his bloodline, and so were a good number of his troops. Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling that he had failed, even though another part of him was sure it all must be part of the divine plan. Still, after several days walking the field of suffering and death, blessing those who were about to be called to Heaven and doing his best to take away the pain of their last dying breaths, he couldn’t help wondering why God’s plan included so much destruction. 

Most of the soldiers were dressed as Saxons, but there were quite a few Normans as well, and Aziraphale blessed them, too. They bled and hurt the same as any other. 

He wasn’t expecting to find Crowley among the dying.

Aziraphale’s heart stopped. He dropped the hand of the dead man he’d been helping to transition, and stepped quickly over the few bodies that lay between him and the demon. 

It was unmistakably Crowley. His red hair lay spilled on the ground – shorter than the last time Aziraphale had seen it, the colour muted by mud and who knew what other horrors. His eyes were closed, and his long limbs were splayed out as though he were a sacrifice. He was dressed like a Norman, of course he was, but as a common foot soldier, without the armour of the aristocracy to protect him. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale shook him gently and touched his face, which was still warm, thank Heaven. 

The demon’s distinctive eyes fluttered open. As he woke, his face instantly contorted in pain, but there was recognition there as well. “Hey, Aziraphale.” 

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Whatever happened to you?” 

“Arrow, in my thigh. I think it’s blessed.” Crowley grimaced, and Aziraphale quickly scanned downward, for the first time noticing the weapon impaled high in the flesh of Crowley’s right leg. He could sense the blessing on it. No wonder the demon had been unable to remove it. Luckily, there was no trace of holy water. The thought of what might have happened if it had been laced with the most potent of blessings – fear struck Aziraphale squarely in the chest. 

“You could have been discorporated! Or worse, Crowley.” 

“Yes, I know that, angel. Could’ve been weeks before my lot got around to looking for me. Bit lazy down in Hell these days. Just between you and me.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it, Crowley! You could’ve . . . could’ve been . . .”

“Yes, but you’re here now, angel. Can you help me get it out?” Crowley said, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. Aziraphale had never been so happy to hear it. 

“All right, all right. But we need to do this carefully. You’ve lost a good deal of blood already.” 

Aziraphale had seen men recover from worse wounds, but the flesh around the arrow shaft was inflamed, which meant they had to act quickly. Crowley flinched as Aziraphale touched him, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but think of other times they had touched over the years, giving each other pleasure rather than pain. 

“Will you be able to heal yourself once I get the arrow out?” 

“Yeah. I think so,” Crowley said, grimacing as he pushed himself up to his elbows. “Whatever you do, no matter how bad it looks, don’t bless me.” 

Aziraphale nodded and grasped the shaft of the arrow. He worked as quickly as possible, but Crowley grunted and swore, and Aziraphale bit his lower lip, almost feeling the pain of it himself. 

“All right, it’s done,” he said after he’d cast the weapon aside. “I’m sorry, dear boy.” 

Crowley was panting and sweating, and his wound was bleeding freely. However, mere seconds later the skin began to knit itself until there was nothing but a little pink puckered scar. Crowley fell back into the muck again and let out a relieved sigh, and Aziraphale realised he’d been clenching his fists so hard, he’d nearly broken the skin of his palms with his nails. These corporations could be such a bother to maintain. They’d spent enough time around each other to know that their corporations were less delicate than those of mere mortals, but there were certain limitations that couldn’t be overcome. It truly was a miracle neither of them had been discorporated by now. 

“Good thing you were here, angel.” 

“Where else would I be?” Aziraphale frowned. He’d served as an informal advisor for the English monarchs ever since King Arthur, which Crowley knew very well. “I thought you were in Spain, fomenting or whatever it is you do.” 

“I was, but then I got wind of what was going on up here. Thought I’d come to see what all the fuss was about.” 

“You were working with William?” 

“Not ‘working with’ per se. I wasn’t fighting, if that’s what you’re inferring. I guess you could call it a case of right place/wrong time.” 

“Right place,” Aziraphale repeated, and there was something a bit sheepish in Crowley’s expression. “You mean you were here because of me?” 

“Well I know how you like to run headlong into danger, angel.” Crowley sat up again. The colour was back in his cheeks, and though he was still caked in mud, he seemed more himself. 

“I do believe there is a saying about a mote and a beam . . . Ah yes, it’s in Matthew—” 

“Spare me, please. I’ve almost been discorporated. What I would really like is a bath and to get spectacularly drunk.” 

“I daresay I agree. I don’t suppose we can go back to the abbey.” He had been staying with the Benedictines in Canterbury for the last several years, but visitors weren’t readily permitted, and nor was the sort of drunkenness that Crowley clearly had in mind.

“Yeah, you’d have a hard time explaining me away. And I’m not keen on burning the soles of my feet off.” 

“An inn?” 

“An inn would be good.” 

There was a place they had met previously, about ten years before, the last time they had seen each other. Agreeing upon it, a room became miraculously available for one plump, rich merchant and his slender travelling companion, and Crowley and Aziraphale met there moments later. 

“The mistress of the house anticipated we would require several bottles of wine,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to a small wooden table where two bottles sat, unstoppered, next to two cups. “Later she’ll send up some food. And the bath should be ready for you.” 

The bath in question was a large wooden basin set in the middle of the floor, filled with steaming water. Other features of the room included a bed only just big enough for two and a window overlooking the courtyard below. In total, it was simple, yet functional, and more private than any room at the abbey would have been. It also brought back memories of the last time they had been here; that time, they had gone nearly a hundred years without seeing each other – far, far too long. 

Not wanting to intrude on Crowley, Aziraphale poured himself a glass of wine and sat down on one of the chairs at the table. He turned when he heard splashing, and found Crowley in the bath, or as much of him in the bath as could be. Most of his upper torso was unsubmerged, and his knees bent awkwardly. There was a look of bliss on his face, however, as he reached for the soap and began to remove the layers of grime that had accumulated as he’d lain on the field. 

“How’s the wine?” Crowley asked, rubbing the hair on his chest in circles, and then lifting one arm, then the next to get underneath. 

Aziraphale was jealous of the cloth in his hand. He knew that it was quite likely they would end up in bed together by the end of the night, even certain, but he always had difficulty with the transition from the public spaces where they met as enemies, or at best acquaintances, to these private rooms, where they met as themselves. As lovers. “Passable,” he replied. 

“Bring me a glass? And . . . could I ask for your help? Can’t quite reach my back.” 

“Of course.” Aziraphale stood so quickly, he almost knocked over his chair. Crowley must have noticed and grinned at him, but he managed to hold his hands steady as he poured Crowley his glass and brought it to him, leaving his own on the table.

“Mmmm,” Crowley said, taking a long sip. “Thank whatever brilliant human had the inkling to first try drinking the spoiled grape juice.” 

“I believe that would be Noah.” 

“I bet he got bored on that long voyage of his. You think he discovered tobacco, too?” 

“Ah, I think that was probably your lot.” 

Crowley’s eyes slipped closed as he drained his glass. “Hmm, sounds like one of mine, and yet the two pleasures go so beautifully together. One of yours and one of mine. You think it means something, angel?” 

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm, and he busied himself with filling Crowley’s glass again and then returning to the bath. He knelt behind Crowley and took the cloth Crowley passed him. As the demon drank, Aziraphale washed the dirt and blood off of his back, and then, on a whim, began to soap his hair. He used his bare hands to scrub all of the muck away until the strands were clean and silky once more. Crowley was uncharacteristically pliant about it all. He leaned back with his eyes closed as Aziraphale rinsed his scalp and then soaped him up once again for good measure. It felt like a benediction, and even though the thought was blasphemous, here within their private room, Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He’d missed the demon, and he’d almost lost him. 

“Mmm, feels good,” Crowley said, a little hoarsely, and Aziraphale chanced a glance into the bath to see Crowley’s member rising. Aziraphale, who hadn’t made an effort in years, felt the same urge in his body, and he let it overtake him. His hands lingered on Crowley’s shoulders longer than was perfectly necessary, and all was quiet save for the occasional ripple of the water. 

“Your turn, angel.” Crowley turned his head, and they were so close Aziraphale could see the droplets of water on his eyelashes. 

“No, I’m perfectly all right.” 

“I know that you love a bath, Aziraphale. Come on, you had a hard day as well. I’ll miracle you clean water.” He began to stand, making no move to cover his nakedness. Crowley truly did have a lovely figure, whatever form he wore. He was never ashamed of himself – even now his part stood proudly out from a thatch of red hair, and Aziraphale wished he looked half as beautiful to Crowley. All was perfect, save for that one small pink scar, and when Aziraphale reached out to touch the little rise of puckered skin, Crowley shuddered. Later, he would put his lips there. 

“All right.” Aziraphale said, swallowing deeply as he got to his feet. He fiddled with the stays on his tunic and pulled it off, followed by his undergarments and hose. All the while, he could feel the demon’s eyes tracking his movements, and when he lifted his gaze, he saw his own desire reflected back at him. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” said Crowley, taking him in, and Aziraphale flushed pink from the tips of his ears to his member, which was rapidly hardening. “Here, the bath’s all yours.” Crowley stood and wrapped a cloth around his waist, and then, once firmly on dry ground, offered his hand to Aziraphale, helping him to sit. 

It was a tight squeeze, but Aziraphale made do. Crowley had left him with perfumed hot water, and it felt marvelous after the last several days of work on the battlefield. 

“Do you want any help, angel?” 

“I . . . I’m quite alright, thank you.” He didn’t know why he’d refused. The idea of Crowley washing him sounded lovely, but force of habit had him speaking before he could stop the words in his mouth.

“Suit yourself,” Crowley said with a little shrug, wiggling out of his towel, which fell to the floor. “More wine?” 

“In a moment.” 

He washed quickly. If he were alone, he would have lingered for an hour or more, but Crowley was pouring another glass of wine for himself, entirely at ease in his nudity, and then retiring to the bed and making all sorts of contented sounds as he lay down, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. 

He dried himself with a second cloth and debated whether or not to put his clothing on, realised he was being ridiculous, and went to Crowley in the bed. 

The demon was waiting for him there, his member lying softly against his unscarred thigh.  
“You seem tense, angel. Bath didn’t help?” 

“Do I?” 

“A bit.” 

“It’s been a trying several days.” Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest.

“Awful business,” Crowley agreed. “Are you just going to stand there? I think I might know something that can help you relax.” The predatory gleam in his eyes made Aziraphale shiver. 

“Well budge up,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley made a show of stretching and then languorously slid over, leaving just enough room for Aziraphale to lie on the bed, and Aziraphale did so, wondering how the demon could so quickly forget what had happened on the battlefield. His own doubts returned to him – if Aziraphale had been on the right side of the conflict, how could William’s forces triumph? All of those humans, all of those lives lost, so that one man could have dominion over more land than he needed – it was depressing in its familiarity. 

Of course, he couldn’t voice these concerns to the demon. It wasn’t very angelic to doubt.

A warm hand on his arm, warm lips kissing his neck, brought him back to himself. “Angel? What’s wrong?” 

Aziraphale turned, so that they lay face to face. “All that death – doesn’t it bother you?” 

“’Course it does,” Crowley said, his smile growing rueful. “I just . . . I know we won’t have a lot of time, so I’d rather not think about it now. I can think about it later, once you’ve gone.” 

There was truth to Crowley’s words; they never knew when they would see each other again. And it was common for soldiers who had bled or killed in battle to be driven to relieve their tension with lusty pursuits after the fact. Perhaps Crowley was like those men.

“Sorry, yes, you’re quite right.” He attempted a smile, and Crowley smiled back at him. 

“And I’m sorry that I nearly got discorporated. Or worse.” 

They moved at the same time, mouths and bodies connecting, and then it was easy to do as Crowley had asked, and push all other thoughts aside. Aziraphale always wondered, when they’d parted, if he had imagined the electric connection between them, but every time they came together again he knew he had been a fool. Every touch of Crowley’s large, capable hands lit up nerves he never knew he possessed; he could feel each stroke like a welcome brand on his skin. The demon kissed his way down Aziraphale’s body, pausing to mouth at his nipple, the plush curve of his belly, and then, with a truly demonic grin, knelt between his thighs to take his member into his mouth. 

Aziraphale had grown soft, but it only took seconds for him to fill again, and soon his part was filling Crowley’s mouth, looking quite obscene. Crowley sucked him vigorously, and Aziraphale fisted his hands in the coarse woolen blanket beneath him, watching as his wet phallus slid against Crowley’s lips. He couldn’t help letting out a moan when Crowley took him down to the root, or the whimper of protest that escaped him seconds later, when Crowley pulled off. 

“I’ve got an idea, angel.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“It’s nothing bad – just something new. Wanna try?” 

Aziraphale nodded, breathless. Crowley knew the way of these things much better than he, and he trusted him with this, implicitly. 

A rearrangement was required. Crowley helped Aziraphale to move farther down the bed, away from the pillows, and then he surprised Aziraphale by switching position, so that they were head to foot, or rather, something even more indecent ¬– Crowley’s hard member was very close to Aziraphale’s lips, as was Aziraphale’s to Crowley’s, and all of a sudden what Crowley wanted to try became clear. 

Crowley encouraged Aziraphale to enter his mouth, and he began to suck him again, this time with slow, decadent pulls that made Aziraphale’s toes curl. He panted against Crowley’s leg, the little hairs on the demon’s thigh stirring as he breathed, and then he kissed the pink scar left by the arrow. It was such a tiny thing, really; it would appear to anyone else almost insignificant. But Aziraphale knew that he would always see in it the threat of Crowley’s annihilation. 

“You’re still thinking,” Crowley said, breathing heavily as he pulled off again. “Stop it.” 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said. 

“I obviously need to work a little harder if you’re thinking about something other than me.” 

“I’m thinking of you,” he admitted, tracing the scar with his finger. 

“I’m right here, angel.” 

Crowley applied his mouth again, and Aziraphale turned his attention to the tip of Crowley’s swollen prick. His mouth watered to taste it. He darted out his tongue to lick the bead of fluid there, and then ran his tongue around the firm, spongy head of it. Crowley made an encouraging noise from down below, so Aziraphale gripped him with one hand and went to his task. 

He had only done this to Crowley twice before, and was anything but practiced, but Crowley seemed to like what he was doing. He was rewarded with a little spill of salt onto his tongue for his efforts, and he redoubled them. Down below Crowley did something positively sinful with his tongue, and Aziraphale had to leave off to concentrate on the sensations. He couldn’t help thrusting his hips a little, but Crowley didn’t seem to mind – he only encouraged it, his hands gripping Aziraphale’s behind and urging him on. 

For some long moments Aziraphale was awash in pleasure as Crowley teased and tormented him, sucking him slowly and sensually as his fingers played below, one of them finding the way inside of him and thrusting there gently while he went about his other work. Aziraphale was only vaguely aware he was supposed to be doing something in return as he neared his peak and then, with a cry of relief, climaxed into Crowley’s mouth. The pulsing, exquisite pleasure seemed to go on for a good while – possibly because it had been quite a long time – and when it was finally over, Aziraphale felt utterly sated and spent. 

Crowley, however, was still in a dire predicament, and Aziraphale took pity on him, stroking the hard shaft as he sucked on the tip, and only a second later he welcomed Crowley’s own seed, swallowing it down hungrily. The demon grinned up from between his thighs. 

“Did you like that? You seemed to enjoy yourself.” 

Aziraphale flushed. “Yes, obviously. Why must you make me say these things?” He licked his lips as Crowley sat up and stretched his arms above him, looking more like a cat than a snake. 

“I like to make you blush, angel. Surely you monks must get up to worse in that monastery of yours.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I certainly don’t know what you mean, my dear. I don’t partake in such activities with humans.” 

“You don’t?” Crowley seemed shocked, as though the idea of abstention had never occurred to him. “You must.” 

“No, I mustn't.” Aziraphale pulled up the blanket around his hips. Something uncomfortable was occurring to him. Of course, he had never expected Crowley to live a celibate life – his line of work, in particular, must require the opposite at times, being about temptation and all of that. Still, though Aziraphale knew Crowley was experienced in matters of the flesh, he had never thought too much on what that meant, in practice. He found he was not entirely comfortable with the idea, and more than that, he disliked the way jealousy made his corporation feel – clammy and slightly sick. It was such an unpleasant feeling. 

“Ah,” Crowley said, seemingly abashed. “Sorry, I just thought—” 

“I have been thinking, however, about what you previously proposed – an arrangement? So that we may help each other out on occasion,” Aziraphale said, wanting to change the subject. 

The demon perked up. “Yeah?” 

“I do think that it might work in both of our favours.” 

“And save us both a lot of effort,” Crowley added. 

“And that, yes, necessarily.” 

“What made you come around?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. You were quite right, what you said long ago, in that nasty hovel during the first snow, do you remember? They never do check up, do they?” Aziraphale smoothed the blanket down around his hips. They were sitting close again, face to face, and Crowley had reached for his wine again, but still made no move to cover his nudity. Aziraphale couldn’t help admiring him. At the beginning of it all, he had wondered if whatever was between them was just a passing curiosity, but it had been thousands of years, and he still felt exactly the same, if not _more_ invested, every time they met. He didn’t want so many years to go by before the next time. 

“Nope, not so far as I’ve seen. I had noticed you’re a little freer with the” – Crowley wiggled his fingers – “than you used to be.” 

“Crowley!” 

“I meant magic, angel!” 

“Indeed.” Aziraphale snorted. “So, is that amenable to you?” 

“Yeah, it’s amenable, angel. Shall we toast?” Crowley climbed out of the bed and slunk toward the table where Aziraphale had previously abandoned his wine, then poured them both a refill. The light from the window beyond framed his body, accentuating his dark angles and hidden places. Precious places. 

“To a new arrangement,” Crowley said, passing Aziraphale his glass. 

“A new arrangement,” Aziraphale echoed, feeling quite content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! <3


	2. Rome, 1512

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale waxes poetic about the Sistine Chapel and Crowley is maybe a little jealous of Michelangelo.

“Oh it is exquisite, Crowley, a true marvel and testament to the beauty of human creation.” Aziraphale was in raptures, and had been ever since he’d returned to Crowley’s apartments in Rome after the first mass to be held in the Sistine Chapel. After some years Michelangelo’s masterpiece was finally completed, and though Crowley would never be able to see it himself, he’d spent enough time tempting the young artist with provocative images that he had some idea of what he was missing. He was very happy Aziraphale seemed to enjoy the work. 

“I’m sure it was, angel. He’s quite talented. Going places, that one.” 

“I am so sorry you couldn’t come, my dear boy. I think our mutual friend is finally going to get his due. Not just as a sculptor, but as a painter – perhaps the greatest this world has ever known.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow from where they sat on the terrace, looking out over the streets of Rome below. It was an unusually warm fall evening, and they were enjoying some olives and cheese along with a nice bottle of red Crowley had procured for the occasion. “I won’t tell our _other_ mutual friend you said so.” 

“Oh, dear Leonardo. Of course you know how much I adore his work.” Aziraphale popped an olive into his mouth. 

It was no secret that Aziraphale favored the younger artist, but though Crowley was willing to assent the man had talent, Leonardo’s natural genius was unparalleled in his eyes. In fact, he had been thinking of commissioning him for a portrait of himself and the angel for some time, but he was trying to figure out how to broach the idea to Aziraphale. He had a feeling the angel wouldn’t want their _acquaintance_ documented so explicitly. 

Aziraphale was still going on about the ceiling. “There is . . . perhaps a bit more skin on display than one would normally find in a chapel.” 

Crowley nodded. “Oh yeah?” There had better be. He had sent enough erotic dreams to try the Pope. Not that that was very difficult these days. 

“But Crowley, the centerpiece of it all is the Creation of Man – the most gorgeously rendered evocation of humankind’s striving towards the Almighty. Of course the details are all wrong – I’m never quite sure why humans envision Her as an old man with a beard, and of course Adam and Eve were dark-skinned, as were all the first humans – but in sentiment, it is perfection.” 

“It sounds a little audacious to me.” He hadn’t had anything to do with that bit of editorializing, but you won some, you lost some. Humans in the end made their own choices.

“Yes, well you like audacious things, don’t you?” 

Crowley frowned. “Most of the time. Angel, I’m starting to think you have a little bit of a crush on Michelangelo.” He leaned forward and poured more wine into both of their glasses, and even in the darkness he could see the angel’s faint flush. “You do! I knew it!” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“He is quite handsome; can’t say that I blame you.” 

“Michelangelo is dedicated to his art, and to his religion. He is exceedingly devout.” 

“I think you’d be surprised. You just might be his type, angel.” If Michelangelo’s response to the dreams he’d sent was anything to go by, but Crowley couldn’t mention that. He took another sip of wine, which tasted sour on his tongue even as he admired Aziraphale’s full figure, accentuated by the wide-necked doublet, dark gold jerkin, and satin overgown he wore. It was a more elaborate costume than usual – to suit the occasion, Crowley assumed. Compared to his own rather sedate black jerkin and front-laced doublet, Aziraphale was the more fashionable of the two of them tonight, but of course Crowley hadn’t such grand plans. 

He knew it was ridiculous to be jealous over a human, even one with such uncommon attributes as the artist in question. Still, he couldn’t stop the next words from slipping out of his mouth. “So if he wasn’t so dedicated, you just might be interested?” 

“Crowley, really, the things you say.” 

“You’re blushing.” 

“Only because you’re teasing me!” 

Crowley relented and was quiet. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to get the angel to admit to. Even after all this time, Aziraphale had never spoken of what they were to one another. Crowley knew why, or at least he thought he did. The angel was still convinced that the divide between them was unbridgeable, in spite of how much they had in common, in spite of how they were continually drawn together. And Crowley knew it too – at least he knew that he should know it. He should be worried about ruining Aziraphale – and he was, at least in part. But he also didn’t know how to go without him. 

For the last several centuries they had seen more of each other than ever before. Usually, they didn’t go a year or two without meeting once. Ostensibly, this was due to their arrangement, which necessitated they compare notes frequently and decide who would do what next, but Crowley had begun to wonder if the whole system wasn’t a pretense for things other than getting work done more efficiently. 

The sounds of the piazza drifted up to them – people making their way home for the evening, children running and splashing in the fountain. Aziraphale had stopped eating, which was never a good sign this early in the meal, and so Crowley went back inside to rustle up something more tempting – a fresh olive oil cake from the market. He cut a large slice and set it on a fine china plate, and brought it out to Aziraphale along with some fresh clotted cream. He knew the angel was missing England. 

Even the cake wasn’t enough of an act of contrition; the angel looked at it dour-faced as Crowley set it down in front of him. Crowley took a deep breath, and a deep sip from his cup, and he was just about to speak when Aziraphale cut him to the chase.

“And why shouldn’t I?” 

“Shouldn’t you what? Eat the cake? Go ahead, angel, no one’s stopping you.” 

“Why shouldn’t I amuse myself with an attractive human if I like. You do it all the time.” 

Crowley swallowed another sip of wine, glad for the new dark-lensed glasses he’d asked Leonardo’s help with fashioning. They did the trick of hiding his eyes from humans – and also Aziraphale, when need be. 

He had been avoiding this conversation purely out of self-preservation, but now it seemed he would have to admit the truth – either that or lie to the angel, and for all that he knew Aziraphale sometimes still didn’t entirely trust him, he had never lied to the angel. 

“No I don’t.” 

“You don’t.” Aziraphale frowned at him, the doubt plain on his features. 

“I mean, I did – at one point, as you know. It’s too messy to get involved with humans that way, I’ve found. And boring. Gets a bit boring. And there are far more clever ways to lead humans into temptation, angel. I’m an artist myself, of a sort.” He sat and crossed one of his ankles over the other, noticing a small scuff on his black shoes and vanishing it. 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead. “Indeed.” 

“Don’t let me stop you, though, if that’s what you want,” Crowley said, affecting a nonchalance he most certainly did not feel. “Sow your wild angelic oats and be happy. Well, maybe not the oats – that’s frowned upon, right – the seraphim and all of that.” 

“Since when?” 

“Hmm?” Crowley blinked quickly and almost spilled his wine.

“Since. When?” Aziraphale asked pointedly, and it was like his eyes could see directly into Crowley’s soul – or lack of one. 

“Oh, not sure. Probably around the eleventh century or thereabouts. That nasty arrow wound.” And he looked down at his hands clenching the stem of his glass, feeling as splayed open as a gutted fish. Now the angel would know the depths of it all, how Crowley was an utter fool for him, and it would be terrible, because the angel could never— He pushed the thought away. 

Aziraphale picked up his fork and began eating the cake. “This is simply wonderful,” he said, making the humming noise he always made when he was truly enjoying something, and Crowley knew he was being let off the hook. A very strange mixture of disappointment and gratitude threatened to overwhelm him, and he took a deep, steadying breath. 

“Mmmm,” the angel murmured again, taking another large bite. There was a bit of cream at the corner of his mouth, and Crowley wanted to lick it off. His prick started hardening in his hose, and he watched, leaning forward as Aziraphale savored his dessert with his eyes closed. 

Crowley finished his wine and then got down on his knees, next to Aziraphale’s chair, and put his hands on the angel’s thighs, which were covered in entirely too much material. Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. His fork clattered to his empty plate.

“Crowley,” he whispered, turning to look down, “what on Earth are you doing?” 

“No one can see us up here, angel, promise.” A little miracle had taken care of that. “Can I get these off?” 

Aziraphale glanced quickly around and then, with a resigned sigh, allowed his codpiece and hose to be vanished. 

“Open your legs. Let me see you.” 

Crowley could hardly believe it. The angel had given himself a cunt. “Well, this is different,” he whispered, leaning forward and removing his glasses to get a better look. The angel was pretty and pink, with just a hint of light blond fuzz at the apex. Crowley could feel his tongue lengthen in his mouth. He wanted to _do_ things. 

“I don’t think Michelangelo would appreciate this, angel.” 

“But you do?” 

“Yeah, I do. I’d appreciate anything you gave me.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, crying out as Crowley began to lick at him slowly, teasing the outer lips with the tip of his tongue, avoiding the sensitive nub above. The angel had never given him a cunt to play with before, and Crowley was enthralled. He nipped the fleshy mound and sucked on the angel’s quivering inner thighs. Aziraphale was balancing precariously on his chair, his back arched to get closer, hands in Crowley’s hair. Crowley fluttered his tongue against the little hole at the center, and the folds grew swollen and wet as he went on, teasing and electrifying all of the nerves. He stuck his long tongue inside and wiggled to get deep, and Aziraphale wailed. 

“Shhh,” Crowley said, easing off for a moment. “Let me take care of you.” 

That was what the angel needed, though he didn’t know it himself. He needed to get out of his head for a change, and maybe Crowley did too. He used one hand to spread Aziraphale’s cunt and the other to pull him closer to the edge of the chair, and then he buried his face between Aziraphale’s legs. The angel tasted delicious, his sweet musky scent drawing Crowley in deeper. He rubbed his nose against the little bud of pleasure, licked it and loved it with his tongue, and the angel shattered, pulsing against his mouth. 

“Mmm,” he said, his own arousal burning him from the inside. “Again.” 

“Again?” 

“You’d like another, wouldn’t you angel?” 

“Oh, oh – yes!” 

Crowley went back to his slow, teasing work, not applying direct pleasure to the most sensitive places, but giving all else his attention, and soon Aziraphale was writhing again, his hands pulling Crowley’s hair to get him closer. Crowley looked up to watch the angel’s face, and he was surprised to see him watching, his attention rapt on Crowley. It made him bolder. He used his fingers, curling two of them into Aziraphale’s cunt and licking between them to give the angel the filling he deserved.

The last of the remnants of day had bled away into night, and Crowley wondered how many times he could make the angel climax before the dawn. He managed twice more with his mouth and his fingers, and by then the air had grown chilly. The food long forgotten, they retired to bed. 

Crowley shed his clothing with a snap, and did the same for Aziraphale’s. Crowley had been living in Rome for the past year on assignment, and for the first time in his existence, he had decorated a place to suit his wants and tastes. The down bed was capacious, covered with the most sumptuous linen sheets. Crowley had never had Aziraphale in such a nice bed, and he intended to make the most of it. 

Aziraphale lay splayed in all his naked glory, and Crowley felt him again between his legs, felt how ready he was. Not able to wait another moment, Crowley aimed his prick and sank into him with a groan, sheathing himself in the tight warmth. Aziraphale moaned and welcomed him, holding him tight and offering him kisses whenever their mouths managed to meet. He was a throbbing, needy wreck as he fucked Aziraphale hard against the mattress, angling his hips to rub the right spot on every thrust, and the angel loved it. He was flushed, pupils blown wide, and when Crowley buried his prick to the hilt and let out a cry of release, he could feel the angel come again all around him. 

Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s neck as they disengaged, both panting, and he realised there were love bites there, just below the angel’s collarbone. He knelt between the angel’s spread thighs and saw the evidence of their coupling leaking from him. A strong urge came over him, and he leaned down to kiss the angel there, right where his prick had just been, and he tasted their mixed essences.

Instead of protesting, like Crowley had expected, Aziraphale spread his legs wider. “Yes, Crowley,” he whispered, and Crowley did as he asked. He had never seen the angel so receptive, so calm and at peace with their lovemaking, and Crowley brought him to another peak with his mouth, and another, until the angel was completely boneless and sated. Crowley came again in his own fist, but it was almost an afterthought. He quickly miracled away his mess and lay down with the angel. 

They didn’t often spend the night together. Aziraphale, as a general rule, didn’t sleep, and Crowley also suspected there was a reticence to do with intimacy there, but tonight, he didn’t think the Almighty herself could drag the angel from his bed. Aziraphale was lying dazed in his arms, a little smile on his lips. His head was pillowed on Crowley’s shoulder, and the unfashionably short blond curls tickled against Crowley’s chin. Any thoughts of dalliances with humans – real or imagined – seemed to have vanished for the time being. 

It seemed a perfect time to ask the question he’d been putting off. 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said. “What would you say to having a portrait done?” 

‘I’ve had several done over the years.” 

“Not by Leonardo, angel.” 

Aziraphale murmured thoughtfully, pulling the sheet up over his hips. “That is true. What made you think of it?” 

“He’s not getting any younger. And he asked after you – if you’d consider it.” It was a bit of a stretch, but not much of one, really. “Anyway, there’s a stunning portrait he did recently that I’d like you to see. It’s in his studio.” 

“All right. I’ll be in Rome for another month at least. When does he want me?” 

“It would be us. The two of us.” 

“You mean sitting together?” Aziraphale’s voice rose on the last word, and he sat up in bed, his curves swathed in linen.

Crowley had to play this next bit carefully if he was going to get what he wanted. “Yeah, just a thought.” 

Aziraphale didn’t speak for a few moments, and Crowley could see the wheels in his brain turning. His expression, which was always more honest than his words where Crowley was concerned, changed from surprised to pleased to worried in a matter of seconds. 

“I don’t know if it’s a very good idea.” 

“Why not?” 

“You know very well why not. If,” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted upwards, “anyone ever got their hands on such an item, we would both be in serious trouble.” 

“You don’t have to worry. My superiors are likely to give me a commendation if they find out, which they won’t. I’d keep it safe, angel.” 

“I thought this painting was for Leonardo. At his request.” 

“It is! It is,” Crowley backtracked. “I’m just saying that once he dies, I’d make sure it didn’t get collected by some estate, is all, or you know. Our respective offices.” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I have seen it done with two canvases used, and the subjects separate, but connected, when the paintings are held side by side.” 

“Ah, yeah.” Crowley was absolutely not going to say diptychs were very common for married humans. The angel was obviously clever enough to know that himself. “That’s definitely an option.” 

“If it were done in that manner, I suppose I would withhold my objection. It maintains plausible deniability.” 

“Plausible deniability.” Crowley couldn’t help feeling rueful, in spite of his own attempts to do the same. 

“I . . . upon second thought, I do think it’s a lovely idea,” Aziraphale said. He was twisting the sheets with his fingers. “I . . . would like to do it.” He glanced at Crowley from under his eyelashes, and Crowley’s prick stirred again. 

“All right, so I’ll tell him yes. We can start next week?” 

“Yes. I have some business with the Pope but that shouldn’t take more than a day or two.” 

“What’s going on with old Julius?” 

Aziraphale let out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, he has plans for the Ottoman Empire – they want to try to retake Constantinople, again.” 

“The last thing we need is another Inquisition, angel.” Crowley shuddered. He had _not_ enjoyed the fourteenth century. Or the thirteenth, for that matter. 

“I know, I know. I’m doing what I can.” 

“Seems to me that these popes act more like kings than priests. But who am I to judge?” Crowley threw up his hands and slid back up the bed to prop against the multitude of pillows. He didn’t miss the way the angel tracked his movements, his eyes lighting on Crowley’s half-hard prick.

“You’re not wrong. I’m pretty sure he’ll be one of yours in the end.” 

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” 

“In any case, we should probably think about the rest of the year. I’m off to Lisbon after this – do you have any work there that needs doing?” 

“Come to think of it, yes. But let’s not talk shop tonight.” 

“All right. If you’d like to sleep, I can—” 

“You’re not going anywhere, angel. I’ve got to make sure you’ve abandoned your plans to seduce attractive young artists,” Crowley said. 

“You’re a ridiculous creature.” Aziraphale threw a pillow at him.

Crowley fended off the blow and smiled. There were still several hours before dawn, and he was remembering he’d had things he wanted to try. “I still haven’t had you from behind. Or what if you sit astride my hips, right in my lap – would you like that, angel?” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale flushed pink. “You absolute fiend!” 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“Only with you, my dear.”

After that, there was no more talking until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! Drop a fella a line? <3


	3. Somewhere between Bristol and London, 1850

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up from his nineteenth century nap with one purpose - to see an angel on a train.

Aziraphale checked his watch, and then checked it again. Sighing, he folded the newspaper he’d brought and set it down on the red velvet seat to the left of him, which was still vacant. The train whistled, and Aziraphale frowned, his stomach clenching with nerves. 

All around him, the other passengers in the first class car were talking or otherwise amusing themselves – some playing cards, others smoking. A woman dressed in silk held a small child on her lap, and it smiled and cooed at Aziraphale, who had never really been fond of children. He gave it a little wave, knowing that if Crowley were here, he would pull a silly face to make it laugh. An instant later, the child’s attention was called to someone else more amusing, and Aziraphale looked out the window. Outside, the day was foggy and grey, an unremarkable late afternoon in midwinter. Aziraphale closed his eyes and settled his head back against the seat, but he was far from comfortable.

He hadn’t seen the demon in almost forty years. Early in the nineteenth century, Crowley had decided that he was tired and he was going to take a nap, and while Aziraphale understood (the eighteenth century had been long and _exhausting_ what with all the revolutions), he couldn’t also help feeling a bit put out. A bit like the demon was abandoning him – just a little. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, and that they were immortal beings, but Crowley was clearly going through something he didn’t want to share. Maybe it was that last part that bothered Aziraphale the most. 

These days, he had resigned himself to a century on his own, but he had received an unexpected telegram from the demon the day before, which asked to meet him on the Great Western Railway Bristol departure at three. For a moment, Aziraphale had almost considered not obliging him, but it was useless to pretend that he wasn’t eager to see the demon. He had arrived at half past the previous hour and, ticket procured, promptly boarded with ten minutes to spare. 

The train whistled again, and a mingled feeling of disappointment, annoyance and despair settled over his corporation. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes again, lest something leak from them. The little child started to wail. 

“Aziraphale,” came a warm voice in his ear. “You came.” 

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open and turned his head. Crowley was sat in the seat next to him wearing his curious glasses, looking the height of fashion in his closely cut long black jacket and grey check trousers. His silk tie had a thread of red through it, which made the sideburns peeking out from under his top hat even more vibrant. Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was ridiculous to feel as though he’d been trapped underwater and was finally able to breathe again. 

“Hello, Crowley.” The train began to pull away from the station. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?” 

“Sorry. I . . . I had some business to attend.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. Crowley likely had a backlog of temptations to perform; it made sense that he would have to spend some time catching up. “Nothing too onerous, I trust?”

“Nothing too big, no. The guillotine bought me about about eighty years of time off, give or take.” 

“You had nothing at all to do with the guillotine, as I recall.” In fact, Crowley had rescued him from a terrible – or at least inconvenient – discorporation from the very same machine, and afterwards they had eaten crepes and spent almost a week in bed. 

“True, but _they_ don’t know that.” Crowley waggled his eyebrows, and just like that it was like no time had passed at all between them. They fell into conversation about this and that, with Aziraphale filling in some of the world events that had passed. Crowley, for his part, did a lot more listening than usual, but he smiled softly as Aziraphale spoke, and Aziraphale wondered if he were mad – all of his irritation, his loneliness, his longing, seemed both repressed by Crowley’s presence, yet amplified, so that he was no longer sure how he felt. The train stopped once, then twice, at other stations but Aziraphale had lost all sense of time and place. Crowley gave no indication for why he had wanted to meet and why he had woken up. Still, Aziraphale got the feeling that there was a pressing reason, only one that Crowley could not or would not express. 

Long ago, he wouldn’t have cared at all about forty years – what was forty years to them, when they were immortal and would exist until the end of eternity. But forty years was long compared to the frequency with which Aziraphale had become accustomed to seeing Crowley since they’d sat for portraits by Leonardo. And they were not invulnerable. The little scar on Crowley’s thigh was always a reminder of that. 

One of Aziraphale’s greatest fears was that something should happen to Crowley while they were apart, and Aziraphale would never see him again. 

They rolled closer to London. The child and its mother got off the train, but not before Crowley did indeed make a silly face to make the little imp laugh. A young girl offering cigars in a box came by and was politely declined. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wished he could see the demon’s eyes behind the reflective glass covering them. Usually, he would take the glasses off when they were alone, but they were far from alone now, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to be. He could feel Crowley’s breath on his face, and he smelled that comforting, familiar scent – leather, spice, a hint of smoke. 

Something of the sentiment must have shown on his face. Crowley, who had been in the middle of saying something – Aziraphale knew not what – left off, and for a moment they just stared at one another. Their arms brushed, and even with layers of fabric between them, Aziraphale felt the electric heat he always did when they connected. 

“I’ve missed you,” Crowley said, his voice low and seductive. 

This had quite a cooling effect Crowley hadn’t likely intended. Aziraphale scoffed. “You could have seen me at any time these last forty years, you ignoramus.” 

“No, I couldn’t.” 

“I don’t understand. Can you please explain to me why we are on this train?” 

“They saw us together, angel.” Crowley’s face fell; Aziraphale had never seen him look so utterly miserable, and it scared him. 

“What? Who?” He glanced around, just to be on the safe side, but there was no hint of any ethereal or occult beings in their carriage. Just ordinary humans, with no idea an angel and a demon sat among them. 

Crowley leaned closer. “Beelzebub did – I don’t know why they were checking up, but they saw us at Brooks’s having dinner. An intimate dinner. I thought it was best to avoid you for a time.” 

Aziraphale felt the words like a slap. He remembered the night in question – they’d had a delicious dinner after seeing Macbeth in Covent Garden. ”You didn’t tell me.” 

“Didn’t want to scare you. I’ve handled it – don’t worry. You were never in any danger.” Crowley sounded a bit more like he was trying to convince himself than made Aziraphale entirely comfortable. 

“What did you tell them?” 

“I told them that I was trying to seduce you. To try to get information,” Crowley said with a little shrug. “I figured it was close enough to the truth not to sound like a lie. Don’t worry, they don’t think I was successful,” he quickly said, and Aziraphale pursed his lips, his fingers worrying the tiny gilt buttons of his waistcoat. There were many questions vying for precedence in his mind.

“But why the train? How is it any safer for us to be here?” 

“Demons don’t trust technology. At least most demons. They have absolutely no imagination, and they fear anything they don’t understand.” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale frowned. Crowley’s explanation made sense, but at the same something rankled him. “I wish you hadn’t made a unilateral decision without discussing it with me. We could have made a plan.” 

“It was too dangerous. Anything could have given us away.” 

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Crowley was right, of course – demons were suspicious creatures as a rule, and Beelzebub would likely have kept an eye on Crowley for some time. “And now?” 

“I wanted to see you.” The words were said simply, honestly enough. Crowley slid his glasses down his nose, so that Aziraphale could see his eyes. They were not beautiful in an objective sense, but to Aziraphale they were lovely. Right now, they were filled with an emotion Aziraphale couldn’t name. 

“There is something else, isn’t there?” 

Crowley swallowed and shook his head. “It’s not important right now. We can discuss it another day. But you’re right, we do need a plan.” He pushed his glasses back into place and rested his head against the seat behind him. The train jostled as it picked up steam from the last stop, and suddenly Aziraphale realised they were alone in the car – a most unusual circumstance, as the GWR was usually busy all the way to the end of the line. It was surely a demonic miracle. 

“When will I see you again?” That was the question now burning inside of him. They would arrive at London soon. 

“Gotta keep laying low a while longer. I think . . . probably not for a while.” 

“I see.” Aziraphale swallowed down his disappointment, but the bitter taste remained. When had the demon become so important to him? Had it been in Rome? Or even earlier? Their first night together – that first snow. Crowley had been so wonderful, and Aziraphale had been shocked at his own behavior. He had thought he would go off and repent – beg for the Almighty’s forgiveness, but he never had. 

It didn’t seem quite fair for them to meet and get on the way they did, if it were wrong. Why would the Almighty throw them together if by their very natures, they must forever be apart? 

Still, he nodded. He nodded, and he put his hand out. Crowley covered it with his own. “I’ll send word – when it’s safe.” 

“All right.” 

“I’m sorry angel. If there’s anything I can do for you – regarding our arrangement?” 

“Nothing. Things have been quiet since I opened the shop. I . . . there is much to do.” 

“Oh yeah – how is that going?” He smiled a little smile. Aziraphale knew that Crowley found the bookshop quaint and amusing. He was tempted to go on and regale him with humorous stories of his customers, who often came in with the troubling notion they could purchase one of his books, but he stopped himself. Time seemed very much of the essence. 

Instead of answering, he slid his hand from under Crowley’s, on the armrest between them, and placed it on the demon’s thigh. He could feel the heated skin underneath the woolen trousers, and he was suddenly desperate with need. It had been so long. 

“Angel! On the train?” Crowley said with faux outrage. He was grinning. 

“As you’ve perhaps noticed, we’re quite alone.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t me! I swear. It must have been you.” 

“Preposterous,” said Aziraphale, but he squeezed Crowley’s thigh and watched with pleasure as the demon’s thighs opened to him. There was a substantial bulge between them, and  
Aziraphale rubbed the length of it. Crowley moaned. Aziraphale’s own member was already throbbing as Crowley’s hand drifted toward him. 

Somehow, they managed to get themselves free, and Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley, feeling the silky skin and rubbing his thumb over the wet tip. He gave a tentative stroke, and Crowley let out a hiss. Crowley did the same to him, and Aziraphale bit his lower lip, watching them both. 

“Yeah, angel. Fuck, stroke my cock.” 

“Crowley!” The indecent words inflamed him. His own member pulsed and ached in Crowley’s fist – shorter and fatter than Crowley’s long, elegant shaft. 

“What? I want you, angel. ’Sss been too long. Tell me you want me to get you off. Tell me you touched yourself and thought of me.” 

Crowley’s hand was moving fast on him now, up and down, and Aziraphale couldn’t help moving his hips to get closer. He squeezed Crowley and marveled at how hard he was, how much he _wanted._ They were both shiny and wet with desire, held by each other, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have cared if the Queen herself had entered the carriage. He wouldn’t – couldn’t stop touching Crowley. 

“Yeah, just like that. Your hand feels so good.” Crowley kept talking, his words a litany of all of the filthiest things he wanted to do, and Aziraphale was quite dizzy with it. They were leaning their heads together, breaths mingling, lips brushing together in a not-quite kiss. Soon they had built up a rhythm, both of their hands moving in time, and Aziraphale found himself sinking into bliss. Yes, he had touched himself and thought of the demon, but it had never felt as good as this, as all-consuming. He gasped as Crowley tightened his grip, and reciprocated. By now, both of them knew each other so well, it wouldn’t take long. Already, Aziraphale could feel the telltale tightening in his groin and the flames licking the base of his spine. 

“Come on, angel. Want to hear you say it.” 

“What?” Aziraphale’s lips ghosted over Crowley’s. 

“Tell me what’s going to happen. What am I doing to you?” 

“You’re . . .” Aziraphale looked down at their members jutting from their opened trousers. He was barely holding himself back. “You’re going to make me . . . come.” 

“Nghh, yeah.” Crowley grunted, and then he was kissing Aziraphale, sliding their tongues together. Warm wetness spilled over Aziraphale’s hand as Crowley throbbed in his grip, and seconds later he was doing the same, his corporation shuddering as the waves of pleasure crested over him, drawing him under. 

They breathed together as they came back to themselves, and Aziraphale was about to miracle the mess away when Crowley withdrew his hand and, watching Aziraphale from behind his glasses, licked the spend from his fingers with his long, pink tongue. Feeling emboldened, Aziraphale did the same, savoring Crowley’s taste. They looked at one another for a long while before either one of them made the move to do up their trousers, but at last the train was slowing again, and the sign for Paddington station came into view in the window beyond.

“Drat,” Aziraphale said under his breath, but obviously Crowley heard him. 

“What will you do now?” 

“Oh, back to the shop – I’ve got a special delivery coming tomorrow.” 

“One of your blasphemous Bibles, perhaps?” 

“No, actually – a Shakespeare folio.” 

Crowley smiled. “Ah, another of our mutual friends.” 

“One feels one has a duty to preserve their work.” 

“You could just become a book collector, angel. Why the shop?” 

“So I blend in with the humans, of course, my dear.” 

Crowley gave him a bemused look. “Yeah, you blend.” 

Aziraphale fiddled with his clothing, ensuring there were no telltale smudges or spots, as brakes squealed on the track as the train came to a full stop. Satisfied, he smoothed his palms down the front of his velvet waistcoat. “Should we walk out together?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Best not.” 

“All right then. I suppose I will see you when I see you.” A hot, uncomfortable lump formed in Aziraphale’s throat. “Please, do take care, Crowley.” 

“Of course. You too, angel. Take care.” 

Crowley leaned forward and brushed their lips together. Then, he was gone. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed in; he could still smell Crowley, but already the scent was dissipating in the air. He opened them again, hoping to catch a glimpse of Crowley on the platform, but the demon had already vanished, obscured by the steam and the cold London evening. He stood, intending to miracle himself quickly back to the shop, but then he noticed something on the seat that Crowley had vacated. It was a letter, sealed with red wax. 

Aziraphale slipped it into his breast pocket as more human passengers entered the train. It was heavy against him the entire way back to the shop. He had decided to walk, to give himself space to think things through, but he found he could only think of the letter and what it might contain. 

Back at the shop, he made himself a cup of tea and lit the oil lamp. He settled down with the letter and, with his opener, undid the seal, spreading the pages down flat to read Crowley’s neat hand. 

There were two sheets. On the first, a letter. 

_A,_

_I’m sorry that our meeting tonight was so brief. I know you must still be angry with me for withholding certain information, and you have every right to be. I can only hope that you will forgive me before we meet again and know that these circumstances are as bitter to me – perhaps even moreso – as they must be to you._

_Or do I presume too much? Is it a presumption for me to think you care for me? That you miss me? I miss you, angel, more than I can say._

_And perhaps that is all I can or should say, for now. Please, burn this letter. I’ve included another enclosure – a sign for your shop to dissuade customers. It’s only a lark, but feel free to use it if you think it will dispel those unwanted guests._

_Until we meet again._

_C._

Aziraphale folded the letter carefully. He knew right away he would never burn it, even if it brought him ruin. He unlocked the drawer in his desk that contained some of the most precious items he’d collected over the years – a black feather, a tiny stone from a cave on a hill, and many others – and set the letter down among them. It was foolish to keep these trinkets, but yet he kept accumulating them, and he had taken to wearing the key around his neck, under his clothes for safekeeping. He replaced it now, though his angelic wards were probably a greater deterrent. 

The other enclosure, he placed in the shop window. 

Late that night, it began to snow, and Aziraphale drank his tea and looked out into it from the little flat above the bookshop. He looked out into the snow, and he thought of Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter @Magnolia822. 
> 
> I'd love to hear from you - thanks for reading!


	4. London, 1908

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale haven't spoken since the holy water incident - then they meet at a suffragette rally in Hyde Park.

As far as the eye could see, women in white and quite a few men thronged in Hyde Park. Many of them were curious onlookers, but many had come to London from all corners of England and even beyond for the march for women’s votes, which some were whispering was the largest that had ever been held. 

It was a warm, clear Sunday. Crowley, or Miss Crowley, as she was known in certain circles these days, was dressed for the occasion as well and stood near platform six, listening to the impassioned speakers. Some of them she knew personally, having spent some time in recent years with the Women’s Social Political Union. It wasn’t truly demonic activity, perhaps, but she had always enjoyed inflaming the Tories – they did such bad things when they were angry – and supporting women’s rights did that in spades. 

Her long hair was done up in pins under her hat, and she held her parasol aloft for extra shade. None of the humans around her spoke to her; she gave off a strong, unapproachable air that was mainly intended to dissuade humans from getting too close. Crowley had never liked being in a crowd. 

She noticed the angel some time later, standing among a small group of women not far off. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale in a dress before; the angel looked beautiful, hair drawn up in a curly mass of white under a white hat, which had several white feathers issuing from it. The angel’s full figure looked lovely swathed in white muslin, breasts accentuated by a satin sash. Crowley’s heart thumped in her chest. It had been years since they had last met, and in spite of herself, Crowley was instantly drawn back to those moments in St James’s Park. She had replayed them often enough. 

_Do you know what trouble I'd be in if . . . if they knew I'd been fraternising? It's completely out of the question._

_Fraternising?_

_Well, whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further._

_I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel._

_Of course you do._

_I don't need you._

_Well, and the feeling is mutual, obviously._

Fraternising. That was what they were to Aziraphale. Even after all this time, after Crowley had spent years trying to keep the angel safe, Crowley had come with a simple request, but had been met with only scorn. 

For years, Crowley’s pride had not let her reach back out – Aziraphale had been unreasonable, and it was the angel’s responsibility to do so as far as Crowley was concerned. Still, the anger wasn’t as bitter as it used to be. Now it was tempered with years of longing and wondering if maybe Crowley had asked too much. 

She watched for some time as Aziraphale laughed with the women, head tossed back, and then the small group turned their attention to the speaker on the platform. Aziraphale wore a little pleased smile, and Crowley couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was unbearably painful to be so close and yet be unable to touch, unable to offer a clever observation and bring out the angel’s smile herself. 

The intensity of Crowley’s scrutiny finally drew the angel’s attention. A flush of shocked recognition appeared, and for a moment they just looked at one another. Crowley was sure that the angel would spurn her, but unexpectedly, after a quick word to the other women, she began to approach. 

“Crowley, whatever are you doing here?” The angel’s voice was familiar and yet strange, a higher register than Crowley was used to. Still, it was lovely, and the angel was even prettier up close, cheeks and lips lightly rouged, and Crowley had to keep both hands firmly on her parasol to stop from running her finger over the plump cupid’s bow. 

“Fomenting, angel. Obviously.” 

“I do hope you’re not going to interfere with the suffragettes.” 

“Not at all. I’m on their side.” 

“You’re . . . oh.” Aziraphale nodded curtly. “As am I. I am here with some representatives from the esteemed National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies.” 

“I’m with the WSPU.” Crowley gestured to the little purple and green flower pin she wore on her breast. 

“I see.”

They looked at one another. Crowley couldn’t help noticing how the angel took her in, blue eyes drifting down over her body. She was equally open in her appraisal. Aziraphale smelled of dusty books and bergamot, a little hint of cologne — the scents Crowley missed most. “How have you been?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded level. 

“Tolerable, I suppose. I . . . I have been meaning to . . .” 

“To what?”

“To write to you. To . . . apologize, for what I said. Is there somewhere we can go, to talk?” Unfortunately, just at that moment one of the women Aziraphale had been with came toward them. She was a plain-faced, poised woman of around forty, with brown hair tied loosely back in a bun. “Miss Fell, who is your friend? I don’t believe we have the pleasure of acquaintance.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Ah yes, this is . . . Miss Crowley. Miss Crowley, may I introduce Millicent Fawcett. Miss Crowley is one of the WSPU.” 

“A pleasure, Mrs. Fawcett,” Crowley said, giving a little curtsy. 

“Miss Fell is one of our most dedicated members,” said Fawcett. “We’ve been so blessed to have her.” 

Crowley couldn’t hold back her smirk. “Yeah, I can believe that.” 

“That’s too kind of you to say.” Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed pink, with a little glare directed at Crowley. 

“Miss Crowley, am I correct in assuming you are acquainted with Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence? I do believe I have seen you with her before.” Crowley was going to respond, but the woman kept speaking. “She certainly did outdo herself today. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such an impressive crowd.” She seemed almost put out, likely because the march she had organized just a week before hadn’t been even half as large. 

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s warm hand on her elbow. “Do excuse us, Mrs. Fawcett. Miss Crowley and I have something to attend to. I’ll join the rest of you later.” 

“Very well. Good day,” said Fawcett with a little nod, and returned to her other companions.

Crowley allowed the angel to lead her away. “I was just getting to know your friend.” 

“Yes, well, I think it’s for the best if we all don’t get too chummy.” 

The crowd parted around them as they made their way from the stages, where the final speakers were wrapping up, to the less populated area of the park. Aziraphale’s words were like a burr in Crowley’s side. She glanced sideways at the angel, who was still walking with one hand on Crowley’s arm. To anyone else, they might have looked like dear friends strolling together, but Crowley had never felt more distant from her lover. Former lover? Aziraphale had never been able to name it. 

“I know how you feel about _fraternising_.” Her words were tinged with bitterness. 

A pained expression flitted across the angel’s face, and the grip on Crowley’s arm slackened. “I suppose I deserve that. I . . . must tell you that I have long regretted my words to you that day.” 

“Have you? I haven’t received so much as a note, _Miss Fell_.” 

“I have regretted them every day, but I also . . . thought it was for the best for us not to see each other.” Aziraphale sounded wretched, and in spite of herself, Crowley felt her resolve to firmness begin to erode. She had always been a fool for the angel, even more so when the angel was hurting. 

They were in a stand of trees now and the crowd of the march had thinned considerably, so that they had some privacy, which Crowley reinforced with a demonic miracle to be on the safe side. Beelzebub had long lost interest in Crowley’s doings – there was some unrest in Hell that kept them busy most days – but they were still out in the open, and she didn’t want to take any chances.

“Whatever happened to not making unilateral decisions, angel? I thought you were against those.” 

“Please. Please let me explain. I said what I said out of anger. Crowley, you know what holy water could do to you; if you make one small mistake, one little slip – you’d be gone, forever. And I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.” 

“Yeah, would hate to be a weight on your conscience, angel. I know how much you like to keep it clean.” 

“That’s not what I mean at all, and you know it! Blast you, Crowley!” Her blue eyes filled with tears, and she turned away, shielding her face and dabbing at it with a tartan handkerchief. 

Crowley wanted to turn away as well. She should turn away, she knew – it would save them both a lot of trouble. Instead, she moved closer. “Let’s just go back to how we used to be, angel. Forget about it.” 

“I still can’t give you what you’ve asked for,” Aziraphale said miserably though her tears, and Crowley knew she meant much more than the water. 

“Yeah. I know.” Discarding the parasol completely, she reached out with both hands and put them on the angel’s shoulders, turning her so that they faced one another. “I know there are certain limitations. But it would be worse never to see you again.” 

There was a struggle behind Aziraphale’s eyes. “Limitations?” she echoed. They regarded one another hesitantly, and Crowley’s miserable excuse for a heart thumped painfully against her ribcage. Aziraphale’s lips parted, wetted quickly with a pink tongue, and Crowley wondered if they weren’t really in the wrong jobs after all – no one had ever been created for tempting the way that Aziraphale tempted Crowley. They drew together like magnets, pressing chest against chest. Crowley kissed her softly, and Aziraphale made a little moan into her mouth, then sealed their lips together. 

All at once Crowley’s mind cleared, and she knew precisely what she had to do; she wrapped her arms tightly around Aziraphale’s waist and moved them further into the cool shade of the little copse. It was dangerous to be out here like this, but it was thrilling, and Crowley remembered how ready Aziraphale had been on the train, how greedy for it. 

The angel seemed greedy for it now, too, with the way she was clinging to Crowley and welcoming her tongue and teeth, welcoming all of it. Maybe they could have this too – maybe they could still come together like this and not worry about what it meant, not try to name it. They had done it for centuries. Crowley was wet and aching between her legs, and the angel must have felt the same; all of a sudden Crowley found her back pressed against a tree with a hot, needy angel kissing her mouth, then her neck, eagerly trying to get at the very little skin that was revealed. Crowley cursed the dresses and petticoats and layers between them – and their ridiculous hats, which kept bumping until Crowley miracled hers away and pushed the angel’s back from her face. They ground against one another’s thigh as they kissed and held onto each other. Crowley had never seen the angel with breasts, and they were almost more than she could bear. She wanted to see everything, all of the angel’s many luscious curves laid out bare before her, wanted to take her time and make the angel feel good – but this would have to do. 

Aziraphale’s mouth was so soft and inviting, and she was making little high-pitched sounds as she rode Crowley’s thigh. Crowley let her, holding her and encouraging her toward her release. Her own body was strung tight, ready to let go with only a little more urging. 

“That’s it, angel. I’ve got you.” 

“Ah – ah! Crowley!” Aziraphale’s eyes were closed as she started to come, and she rested her head on Crowley’s shoulder as her body shuddered gently and then was still. 

Crowley was painfully aroused, and vaguely aware that the skin of her back had been scraped against the tree, but before she could do anything about it, Aziraphale was dropping to her knees. 

“Please, let me.” Big blue eyes looked up at her, and without another thought Crowley vanished her undergarments. Aziraphale removed her hat, which by now was only hanging on with a pin, and then she pulled up Crowley’s skirt and settled beneath it. Crowley knocked her head back against the trunk as she felt the angel’s warm mouth close on her pussy. She was positively dripping, and she pulled aside the cotton and silk to run her hands through Aziraphale’s soft hair while she ground shamelessly against her. Aziraphale encouraged her to lift one leg and place it over her shoulder for better access, and Crowley very nearly swooned. 

The angel was strong. Crowley sometimes forgot that, but this was a very clever reminder. Her mouth was greedy, and she seemed to love it as much as Crowley did, making little hungry sounds as she licked and suckled on Crowley’s clit. It didn’t take long after that, once the angel built firm, steady pressure. Crowley cried out as her orgasm shook through her. She would have fallen had Aziraphale not been holding her up, eating at her until she almost sobbed with pleasure. 

After, they were both a mess – hair askew, clothing smudged with sap and other tree debris. Aziraphale straightened her sash and Crowley leaned down to pick up a glove that had fallen in the dirt and been stepped on – it was the angel’s, smaller for her more petite hand. Crowley ran her fingers over the fine lace and was about to pass it back with a little comment when she noticed something that stopped her cold.

Aziraphale didn’t think herself observed – she was still putting herself to rights, slightly turned away, but the expression on her face was unmistakable. 

Regret. 

It had been a mistake; that much was clear from the way the angel’s hands fluttered distractedly as she patted her hair, fixing the feathers of her ruined hat. 

Crowley pretended to fiddle with her parasol, not quite able to face the fact that nothing fundamental had changed. And the angel had told her, hadn’t she? She had told her the truth, and had tried to stay away for the both of their sakes, and Crowley had to accept it. If not for their chance meeting, this never would have happened. They were essentially incompatible. Perhaps they could still work together, even meet for dinner or the theatre, but they couldn’t have what she most wanted. They couldn’t share their real selves – or their real feelings – and being intimate only made things worse. It only made it more clear what was missing. 

But could she live with seeing the angel, and never touching her? That would be better than not having the angel at all, wouldn’t it? 

“This shouldn’t happen again,” Crowley said, hardly believing she’d been able to say the words. Better she do the dirty work, so the angel wouldn’t have to. It would save them both. 

Aziraphale turned to her, eyes wide. “Oh.” 

“You were right, angel. We’ve just taken a big risk and we need to be smart. Keep our wits about us and all that. Keep our distance.” 

“But I’ve missed you, my dear. I’ve missed you so terribly.” 

Crowley dug her fingernails into her palm. “Yeah. Not saying we shouldn’t keep . . . up with the arrangement. A trade here or there, we can still do that. Still meet up for a lunch, once in a while, if you like. But—” The words felt like shards of glass in her throat. “It’s probably best we don’t do this again.” 

Aziraphale had gone quite pale, and for a moment Crowley wondered if she’d made a terrible error of judgment, but then the angel was nodding stiffly and saying, “Yes, that’s sensible. You’re quite right.” She gave Crowley a watery smile. 

“I’m off to Belgium next week. Can I take care of anything for you?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale touched her hand to her face. “I’ll have to get back to you – I’ll send a telegram?” 

Crowley was going to suggest a meeting in the park, but she nodded. It was better this way. “All right. I’ll look forward to it.” 

They walked out of the trees together, back into the crowd of people who had no conception of what had just passed between an angel and a demon only steps away. Once, Crowley would have laughed about it – would have taken the angel’s hand in a secret squeeze behind their backs before they parted. Today, however, she could only cover her head once again with her parasol and watch as the angel returned to her friends. 

It was a beautiful day in June, and Crowley watched her heart walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ducks to avoid flying tomatoes* 
> 
> I know, I know, we are earning our 'angst' tag here, but please bear with me... 
> 
> Feel free to yell at me (or Crowley or Aziraphale) in the comments!


	5. New York City, 1971

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale visits the Continental Baths in NYC in 1971 to bless the gay community - he isn't expecting to find Crowley there.

The Continental Baths, located in the basement of the Ansonia Hotel, were not what Aziraphale had expected. He had lived in London’s Soho for decades and was no stranger to homosexual culture or the acts men engaged in together, of course, but this place was larger than he had ever seen, and contained not only private rooms but also a dance floor and stage, which at this moment was occupied by a very loud group of musicians playing be-bop. 

He was here tonight for general blessings, and in order to blend in, he paid his fee to the bemused attendant and received a small white towel, which he wrapped around his bare waist, after entrusting his belongings to a rather insecure looking locker and warding it for good measure. 

Men were everywhere, most wearing towels, some partially clothed, and even a few naked. Around the pool small groups congregated, some talking and drinking, some kissing, but not much more than that. In the back rooms there would be more intimate displays, but Aziraphale kept away from those, wanting to respect privacy. 

When he came to establishments like this, he looked for those who were in despair, and it wasn’t hard to find them. Many men were ashamed of their desires, and some even considered harming themselves. Aziraphale would find these men and listen to their troubles, give them a shoulder to cry on, and of course a blessing, which usually was enough to turn them from the darker path, at least for the present. They thought of him as a friendly avuncular figure, homosexual but perhaps not interested in sex, and Aziraphale would listen as they spun tales of lovers long gone, of wives they had betrayed, of families who had rejected them. 

If only they knew how much he could relate to their stories of heartbreak. But of course Aziraphale was not here to talk about himself. 

He found one man, middle-aged, portly, and alone, sitting on the edge of the pool watching the others. There was a strong vibration of self-disgust and uncertainty radiating from him. Aziraphale approached and sat down. 

“Hello there,” said Aziraphale. 

“Uh. Hi,” said the man, startled. 

“My name is Aziraphale. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

The man raised an eyebrow at him, likely surprised by the accent. “Henry.” 

“Do you come here often, Henry?” It was what Americans regarded as a ‘pickup line’ and Aziraphale had used it intentionally. Sometimes, all humans needed was a little confidence boost to get them to act in their own best interest. 

The man regarded him curiously, and Aziraphale smiled encouragingly. 

“I do, yeah. Usually during the week, though. This music is a little loud for me. Maybe I’m getting old.” 

“Funny you should say that,” Aziraphale said. “I feel just the same.” 

“You can’t be more than what, forty-five?” 

“Oh, I’m much older than that, my dear fellow.” 

They fell into conversation, which Aziraphale tinged with just enough flirtation to lift the spirits without suggesting he would be interested in engaging in sexual acts. Henry responded beautifully, and in another twenty minutes Aziraphale had convinced him to take a dip in the pool and speak to another gentleman who had been watching the two of them talk. He waved from his perch on the side and gave a covert blessing to Henry and his new beau, and then he took himself away to the bar, where two young men were having a fierce, bitter argument. 

As he ordered a glass of unremarkable white wine, he saw his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles and glasses and almost didn’t recognize himself. He wasn’t used to seeing himself with no clothes on, save for the towel, which didn’t really count. Among the mostly young and fit crowd, his round belly, soft pecs, and lightly furred chest made him unremarkable and easy to pass over, but he did get interest. He smiled politely when a gentleman on the other side of the bar caught his eye, turning his attention back to the young couple who were still at each other’s throats and blessing them silently. Soon after both of them were apologizing – and snogging quite energetically. 

And so it went. 

At around one in the morning he found himself on the edge of the dance floor, which was when he saw Crowley dancing with a very tan, very muscular – and oily — young man. 

Aziraphale’s heart lodged in his throat. He hadn’t seen the demon since the night he had brought him holy water, almost three years before, though they had been corresponding by post frequently for work-related matters. 

Crowley was wearing his hair a bit longer, so that it just brushed his shoulders, and there was a ridiculous moustache on his face. His dancing was also atrocious, but mesmerising. Aziraphale couldn’t breathe as he watched those wriggling hips. The oily man put his hands on them, and ground his pelvis against Crowley’s arse. 

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

He still wasn’t able to give Crowley what he deserved – he knew that, and so did Crowley. He had made a mistake, all those years before, getting too close before it was clear what was happening. Before it was clear that they were not adversaries, or even friends – they were far more precious than that to one another. Too precious to risk. 

The man was touching Crowley, and Aziraphale bit his bottom lip hard enough to hurt. He had no reason to expect the demon to abstain. Still, it was painful – too painful to watch. He turned away with a mind of going quickly to retrieve his things and leave the club before Crowley spotted him. Before he got more than a few paces, he felt a sweaty hand on his arm. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley sounded overjoyed to see him, and that is when Aziraphale realised the demon was drunk – very drunk. 

“Crowley, I didn’t know you were in New York. I thought you’d been in Mexico.” He had to shout over the beat of the music. 

“I was, angel. I was.” Crowley weaved closer, seemingly forgetting his dance partner. He was wearing tight bellbottom jeans with boots and nothing else, save for a skinny little tie around his neck. Aziraphale had quite the urge to lead Crowley away on it as though it were a leash. “I knew you were coming here, though. Thought we could meet up. For you know, the thwarting and the tempting.” 

“Isn’t the point of our arrangement that only one of us needs to be in a place for both? You should have told me you had tempting to do.” Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a bit self-conscious in his little towel, which was hanging on by a miracle – literally. 

“Didn’t think of it until I was already gone, and you know how it is. Got busy.” 

Over Crowley’s shoulder, Aziraphale noticed that his previous dance partner had found another, and the two of them were enjoying themselves considerably. Crowley tracked his gaze and let out a little whoop. “My work here is done. I’ve been trying to get those two together all night.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, tamping down the burst of relief he felt. “Well done.” 

“And what about you?” Crowley leaned closer and Aziraphale could smell his sweat mingled with whatever alcohol he’d drunk – whisky. “Successful night?” 

“I should say so, yes. That’s one of mine.” He gestured back toward the pool, where Henry was now snogging his new friend. 

“So the tempting and the blessing are having similar effects, I see.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny Crowley was right. “Yes, well, I was just going.” 

“Oh no you don’t, angel. You’re going to dance with me.” 

“I’m wearing a towel, Crowley!” Aziraphale resisted as Crowley started to drag him back toward the floor. 

“So is everyone else – or less. I must say it looks good on you.” Crowley’s breath tickled Aziraphale’s ear. 

“You know I can’t dance to be-bop!” 

“You can, angel, just feel the beat.” 

Crowley, for his part, seemed to be having a difficult time finding the beat himself, yet with a long-suffering sigh and pounding heart, Aziraphale allowed himself to be led to the dance floor. He was just about to reconcile himself to jostling about for one song, when the music betrayed him entirely. It grew quiet and slow, and all of the couples around them began to move in a sensuous rhythm. 

“Did you do this?” 

“No idea what you’re talking about, angel.” 

They swayed together, their arms around one another’s waists, and for a moment it seemed time had stopped, or perhaps reversed. Crowley’s eyes were hidden away behind his glasses, but his lips were parted, and as they drew even closer together, he looked suddenly stricken. Aziraphale realised with a shock that Crowley was hard against him. 

“Sorry. Can’t help it. Not when you’re in my arms.” 

Aziraphale didn’t move to pull away, though he knew he should. Things were spinning rapidly out of control, but his own corporation responded to what he had long been denied, and his member thickened and tented the towel. 

“I’ve missed you angel. That gift you brought me. It’s locked up tight. It’s safe. I’m not going to use it except in emergencies, just like I said.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale could barely get the word out. “That’s good.”

“Fuck,” Crowley said, sagging against him, and their bare chests pressed together made Aziraphale feel faint. “I’ve got to sober up. Please don’t leave.” 

“All right.” 

Crowley made a face, and when the alcohol had left his system, he gave Aziraphale a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’m a mess. Don’t mind me – you can go. I shouldn’t have dragged you—”

“I want to stay,” Aziraphale said, cutting him off. “The song isn’t over yet.” 

“It’s not too fast?” 

“It’s just a dance, you ridiculous demon.” But of course it wasn’t just a dance, and Crowley had asked him pointedly, wanting to know if things had changed. 

They were still on opposite sides. But were they really, when sometimes blessing and tempting led to the same end? 

Crowley’s hands rubbed up and down his bare back, sending shivers up his spine. Aziraphale pressed closer and pulled the demon tighter against him. In so doing, he was drawn back again to that day in the park, that frantic, heated coupling, and then to what was said about limitations. He knew they were on the verge of doing something reckless and that it was not what they had agreed upon, but he couldn’t let Crowley go. One night couldn’t possibly make any difference, could it? He was tired of staying away. 

Crowley’s fingers drifted down to the towel and settled there, just at the juncture between cloth and skin. For a moment Aziraphale wondered what it would be like if they were just humans out for a night together. In many ways, he felt a kinship with the people among them – they too were forbidden to be seen like this in the light of day. It felt safe here; perhaps deceptively so. 

The song ended, but neither of them made a move to separate. Crowley’s cheek was against his, and they were breathing quickly, together. 

“It’s too dangerous for us to be standing like this,” Aziraphale said. He had panicked at the park during the suffragette march, fearful that someone had seen them, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake again. Crowley began to pull back, but Aziraphale held his hand. “What if we – find a room. In the back. I do believe number thirty-five is just now free.” 

“Yess,” Crowley hissed. "Fuck, angel, really? You want this?” 

Aziraphale gave him a wry look. “Wanting was never the problem, my dear. Shall we meet in five minutes?” 

Crowley nodded and slipped away into the crowd. Aziraphale watched him go, giddy anticipation making him almost trip over the feet of another guest. Somehow, he made it from the dance floor back to the area with the private rooms, passing men engaged in various sexual acts, either in pairs or small groups. The smell of marijuana and other drugs hung thickly in the air. He was not usually stimulated by such sights, but tonight, the sounds and sights of bodies coming together – combined with the knowledge that he was going to be meeting Crowley – made his arousal all the more potent. 

He arrived first, but he didn’t have to wait long. Crowley appeared a minute later, locking the door behind them with a demonic miracle. It was a dimly lit, humid, tiny room, with a simple wooden bench and a few discarded towels, likely left by the men in here before them. It was far from the glamorous, romantic atmosphere they had once enjoyed in Crowley’s Roman palazzo – much more like the hovel in the snow — but Aziraphale didn’t care. 

They didn’t speak, just moved together wordlessly, and Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley’s neck, allowing his towel to drop. Crowley, who had already disrobed before he entered the room, was as hard as Aziraphale. They kissed with roving, desperate mouths, both fueled by the understanding that this night would not – could not — be repeated. The urgency and hunger was like nothing Aziraphale had ever known, and Crowley met him touch for touch, grasping and holding on like neither one of them would ever let go. 

“Take off your glasses, Crowley. I want to see your eyes while you have me.” 

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you tonight?” Crowley nearly growled against his throat. 

“Yes! Please.” 

“All right. Yeah.” Crowley threw his glasses to the floor, where they would surely be stepped on, the room was so small. He gripped Aziraphale’s prick with one hand and started to jerk him slowly as they kissed. Aziraphale was leaking all over Crowley’s hand, hitching his hips to get closer. His lips were overly sensitive from grazing against Crowley’s silly moustache, which he was becoming rather fond of, oddly enough. Crowley did have a way of pulling even the most absurd trends and fashions off with aplomb.

“Stop. I’ll come.” 

“Want you to.” Crowley’s teeth grazed his neck, and from the way the demon was sucking, Aziraphale was sure he would have bruises the following day. “Want you to come so many times.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back in his head as an orgasm crested through him, and he rose on his toes, unsteady as he sent warm spurts all over Crowley’s hand, his stomach, the thatch of hair between his legs, even onto his erection. 

“That’s my angel,” Crowley said, and it thrilled Aziraphale, utterly, to be claimed in that way, with a mere two letter word. Such a small thing, such a dangerous and forbidden thing when used in a such a way. He wouldn’t deny it, though, tonight – he wouldn’t do that to Crowley. He kissed him instead. 

“How shall we?” he panted when they broke apart. Crowley was grinding against him fairly desperately, his reddened prick dripping with need. 

“On your back. Here.” Crowley retrieved their two towels and made a mat of sorts to cushion the bench, which Aziraphale hurriedly lay upon. He felt a little silly, but when Crowley approached him with his eyes flashing, looking as though Aziraphale were quite a treat, Aziraphale relaxed. Crowley palmed himself and reached between Aziraphale’s legs to touch the little furled hole, and Aziraphale moaned as a finger breached him. He knew it was no secret to Crowley he liked to be taken. He liked it perhaps better than he liked taking Crowley. And to be taken in that hole was such a full-bodied, intense experience. He didn’t mind even the initial discomfort – he relished feeling Crowley inside of him. Greedy for more, he thrust his hips to get the finger deeper, and Crowley watched him with those lovely golden eyes, frigging him for a moment, and then withdrawing to wet two fingers with his tongue. 

The stretch with two was even more lovely, and Aziraphale groaned. He was starting to stiffen again, his pink cock half-hard already on his belly. 

“You really want me, angel? You’re sure?” 

“Yes. What more do I have to say?” 

“Tell me you want my cock inside you.” 

“I’ve said that!” 

“Not with those words in particular.” Crowley grinned down at him. 

Aziraphale bit his lower lip, face flushing. “You’re better at speaking like that than I am, Crowley. I sound ridiculous.” 

“No you don’t. You really don’t.” 

Aziraphale breathed out, feeling the urgency growing inside of him. He wanted more than Crowley’s fingers, and the demon had it in him to tease all night. “Very well. Crowley, I want your cock inside me. Please.” 

“Oh, you could have put a little more effort into it.” 

“I’m making all the effort I possibly can. And really, do get on with it. I’m tired of waiting!” 

He clenched down as Crowley withdrew his fingers, but then the demon pulled him flush to the edge of the bench. His prick prodded at Aziraphale’s hole, and the tip slipped inside easily, slicked by another miracle, and Crowley let out a groan. He withdrew and then sank into Aziraphale with a full thrust, and he wasn’t making jokes anymore. His face was dazed with pleasure, and Aziraphale lifted his legs to wrap around Crowley’s waist, drawing him deeper still. 

“Someone’sss sake, angel. Why do you always feel so good?” He held Aziraphale’s hips, punctuating each word with a thrust. “I’ll never get enough,” he muttered. “Never. Tell me you want this.” 

“I want this, Crowley, I want this.” Crowley was fucking him hard now, each thrust shaking Aziraphale’s body and making him jiggle – he hoped becomingly, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. He held onto the edge of the bench with both hands so that he wouldn’t slide backwards, and the sound of skin slapping filled the room. Aziraphale’s erection was aching, but he couldn’t lift a hand to touch himself. He wasn’t even sure that he would need to touch himself – Crowley was hitting the precise right spot. Another climax felt not only likely, but imminent. 

“Tell me you want me to come inside you,” Crowley asked, his eyes glazed with lust. 

“I want you to come inside me, my darling, please.” 

“Fuck. Here it is. Sorry – can’t wait—” Crowley looked pained, his face contorting and eyes scrunching shut, and Aziraphale felt the throb of his release, which triggered his own. He ejaculated onto his stomach with a surprised gasp, and Crowley hunched over him, bringing their lips together as the pleasure spiked and then gradually abated. 

Crowley looked down at him with a soft smile, seeming so content and happy that Aziraphale wanted to curse the skies. How could he take this happiness from him? It was too much – too unfair. Not for the first time Aziraphale wondered if he were being tested for his loyalty, and if he were, what a twisted, terrible test it was – and what sort of Heaven— No, he couldn’t. 

He would surely fall. He didn’t want to fall, of course he didn’t, and he didn’t want Crowley to suffer or be destroyed because of their association, but when Crowley looked at him like that, nothing else seemed to matter. Yet to choose Crowley was to turn away from God, from Heaven, from everything he believed represented good. 

Of course, Crowley was also good, though he would never admit it. 

He hoped his torment wasn’t visible on his face, but he was sure it was. Crowley’s smile gradually faded, but the warmth in his eyes remained. 

“It was just for tonight, I know it. You don’t have to say it out loud, angel.” He disengaged gently, and there was a cool miracle soothing Aziraphale’s heated skin. 

“We’re utter fools,” Aziraphale said. “Aren’t we?” 

“Maybe so.” 

They sat next to each other on the bench, and Crowley’s arm came to circle his waist. He leaned his head against Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley kissed the top of his head. 

“Can we just stay like this for a little while?” Aziraphale asked, hot tears pricking the backs of his eyelids.

“As long as you want. Of course.” 

“Will you be back in London after this?” 

“Yeah. I got a new flat. You should see it. S’nice. Bring a bottle of wine, help me break in the place.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

From the corridor, noises of talking and laughing and fucking drifted in, and Aziraphale thought of the unhappy lot of the men around them – how humans had made a sin where God had never intended. It was so cruel for people to be kept apart when they loved each other. Yet it had never been the Almighty’s intention – it was something people did to each other. 

That thought sparked within him, and not for the first time he wondered if perhaps he too was wrong about the things he had long believed. 

It was just a glimmer of hope, but it was there. And so was Crowley, at least for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. London, 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened at Crowley's flat after the Notpocalypse.

They sat on a park bench sharing a bottle of wine and waiting for the bus. Crowley felt the sort of bone-deep tired he hadn’t felt since the Spanish Inquisition. He was thinking, too, that Aziraphale looked tired, and he knew the angel never slept. 

Suddenly, headlights came into view. 

“Oh, there it is.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “It says ‘Oxford’ on the front of it.”

“Yeah, but he’ll drive to London anyway. He just won’t know why.” 

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.” 

“It burned down, remember?” Crowley remembered all too well. He didn’t want to think about those moments when he thought the angel had been destroyed – never in his existence had he felt such utter despair. “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

“I don't think my side would like that."

“You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We're on our own side.” And as far as Crowley was concerned, it had been that way for a very long time. 

“Like Agnes said, we are going to have to choose our faces wisely,” Aziraphale said cryptically, but it wasn’t a refusal. It wasn’t a rebuttal – that was something. 

The bus arrived and stopped for them. There were only a couple other passengers on board, and Crowley was shocked when the angel not only sat down next to him, but took his hand as he did. 

He supposed that was his answer, then. A little thrill went through him as he settled into the seat and threaded their fingers together. Aziraphale’s hand was warm and dry, the kind of hand that one wanted to hold, that fit perfectly in his own. Crowley had never seen a nicer one. He looked down at their joined hands and admired the little perfect half-moons on Aziraphale’s fingernails, the even and smooth edges. His hands were compact but strong and provided the perfect counterpoint to Crowley’s long-boned fingers and knobby knuckles. Crowley had the strong desire to bring the hand he was holding to his lips, but he decided not to press his luck. They hadn’t been so close for almost fifty years – not that Crowley was counting. (He was.) 

The bus rumbled beneath them. 

Aziraphale was worried; that much was clear from his expression and the deep lines creasing his forehead. His grip was firm, like he was holding onto Crowley for more than comfort. What they had seen today, and in the past week, had destabilized them both, but Aziraphale most of all. Crowley knew that. He knew that he shouldn’t read too much into this simple gesture, the idea of Aziraphale finally coming home with him. (He did.)

They didn’t speak on the drive, and Crowley’s mind was filled with thoughts of the past decade, but mostly of the past week. He still didn’t know what Aziraphale meant by choosing faces, but he sensed that he had a plan, which was good, because Crowley was fresh out of ideas. Stopping time and confronting Satan had a way of sapping the imagination. 

Finally, they came to his building, and Aziraphale and Crowley got off, still holding hands. They went up the elevator to the penthouse flat still holding hands, and Crowley didn’t bother with getting out his door key. He miracled it open, not wanting to risk releasing Aziraphale.

Inside it was dark and still smelled of smoldering demon. Aziraphale looked around curiously, taking in the dark walls, the minimalist furnishings. It was such a far cry from the bookshop, but he didn’t seem displeased. He gave Crowley a gentle tug, and Crowley allowed himself to be led through his own flat.

Aziraphale gave him a little smile as they moved from one room to the next. He paused at the statue of the wrestling angel and demon, which Crowley had bought in a gallery as a lark, and raised an eyebrow. Crowley grinned and shrugged. 

“It’s art, angel.” 

“Indeed.” 

Aziraphale looked back at it. “I always wondered what your place would be like.” 

“You promised to come over for a bottle of wine.” 

“I did. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.” 

“Better late than never.” 

They moved on, through the modern chrome and black marble kitchen, the fridge of which Crowley quietly miracled to be full of Aziraphale’s favourite treats. When they got to Crowley’s greenhouse room, Aziraphale let out a little gasp. “My dear, this is beautiful. You really do have a knack for growing things.” 

“I have my ways.” Crowley gave the plants a pointed look as he spoke, and if the Aspidistra in the corner shuddered a little, Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. 

“Thank you . . . for inviting me. I can’t believe the shop is gone. All my books. All my memories, all of my most valuable keepsakes.” A pained expression crossed his face. “It’s a silly thing, I suppose, in the grand scheme of things.” 

“Not silly at all, to me. You’ll make new memories, angel.” 

“We will.” 

“We?” 

They were facing one another, and Crowley took Aziraphale’s other hand. The angel was looking at him with hope in his eyes. It was that same beseeching look that he levelled at Crowley countless times through the centuries, and which Crowley had learned, in the past hundred years or so, to respond to with care. Never to be too conciliatory, too eager. That would only scare the angel away. It was a matter of self-preservation, when Crowley had only ever wanted to give Aziraphale everything. 

The angel hadn’t been ready. Maybe he was, now, but Crowley had to be sure. “You really want that?” 

“It hasn’t ever been a matter of wanting, my dear. You do know that, don’t you?” 

“I don’t know that I know anything.” Crowley fought to keep his voice even. He wasn’t trying to be cruel – he just knew that sometimes, the angel needed a push. 

“And that is my greatest sin, isn’t it? Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry, angel. I just need to know what this means. It’s a risk – to you.” 

“I think that if I were going to fall, it would have happened by now. All of these years on Earth with you, I thought that if I just didn’t admit it out loud, if I just kept it to myself, that I would be spared from making the decision . . . to choose you, over Heaven, even if in my heart, I already had. I should have known better, because the Almighty knows what is in our hearts, and in my heart, I have always loved you.” 

Crowley felt like something inside of him was melting, and he hadn’t even known there was ice there to melt. He was going to say something. His mouth dropped open, but only an inarticulate sound escaped.

Aziraphale, seemingly undaunted, pressed on. “And I thought I was protecting you. You were always so reckless, my dear, when it came to us. When you saved me and those bloody books – burning your feet – and let’s not even mention Paris. I . . . thought by keeping you at arm’s length, it would save us both, but it is such a silly thing – it was too late already. I . . . have missed you for so long. I wish I had told you this long ago.” 

Crowley came to his senses. “It wasn’t just you, angel. That’s not so far away from what I thought. Come on. You don’t have to be a martyr for me. I knew what it would mean for you – what you would be giving up. I knew waiting for you would be worth it.” 

“Really?” 

“’Course. Knew you’d come round, sooner or later.” Crowley brushed their lips together. 

“You didn’t,” Aziraphale replied, sounding a little breathless as they kissed again and then broke apart. 

“No, I didn’t. But that’s okay. I make my own decisions, angel.” Crowley tucked one of Aziraphale’s curls behind his ear and cupped his cheek. 

They kissed again, deeper this time, both of them holding on tightly to each other as though the world had almost just ended. Crowley put his hands in Aziraphale’s soft hair and tilted his head so that he could delve deeper with his tongue. He put all of his love into the kiss, hoping Aziraphale could feel it this time, and the angel kissed him back, pulling at Crowley’s shoulders to get closer. It wasn’t enough. Crowley resented even the atoms and molecules that kept them apart. He had often wondered why – aside from it feeling nice —he was so compelled to kiss and touch Aziraphale in such a human way. Maybe it was because Earth and humanity had chosen them even before they had chosen those things themselves, or knew they had. They kissed until Crowley’s lips tingled, and he felt something wet and warm on Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

“Angel,” he said, concerned, but Aziraphale was smiling through his tears. 

“I won’t give up God, Crowley. Not ever. But Heaven – it’s not what I thought it was. Or perhaps, rather, I am now able to admit that I have long had doubts, but with recent events, they have only been confirmed. I . . . think that neither Heaven nor Hell has the best interests of humanity at heart. They . . . are only concerned about themselves.” 

Crowley nodded; he had always known Heaven was bollocks, but he had also understood why Aziraphale had to believe in it. “Yeah. I have no doubt they’re making plans together as we speak. Beelzebub is always in a rotten mood when they don’t get their way.” 

“Indeed. Gabriel is the same.” 

“Someone should get those two together.” 

Aziraphale shuddered and made a face, but his arms slowly dropped from their place around Crowley, and he seemed preoccupied. So, kissing was on pause. That was fine. “What are we going to do?” 

Aziraphale let out a sigh and started to pace about, fingers worrying the buttons on his waistcoat. “They will come for us, I expect, no later than tomorrow.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. “Agreed.” 

“Agnes’s prophecy is very curious. I think she is suggesting that we make a switch.” 

“A switch?” 

“Our essences, or our corporations, however you’d like to think of it.” 

“How in the bloody hell are we going to do that?” 

“I’m not entirely sure. But I think, having just possessed Madam Tracy, bless her dear heart, I have some idea – it takes a great deal of concentration, but it shouldn’t be too hard. The harder part will be pretending to _be_ each other, for as long as whatever they have in store for us takes.” 

“Angel, I think we know each other well enough that it shouldn’t be a problem.” 

“And we do have the element of surprise on our side. They won’t suspect it. I don’t think that a mutual possession between a demon and an angel has ever been tried before – like you said, once about your side – no imagination. It applies to mine as well.” 

“But _if_ they find us out?” 

“Well. If that happens, I don’t think we’ll see one another again.” Aziraphale stopped again in front of Crowley, his blue eyes wide. His bottom lip wobbled a little, and for a moment, Crowley thought of suggesting Alpha Centauri again. But they couldn’t run forever. 

He took Aziraphale’s hands. “All right. I don’t have any better ideas, and Agnes seemed to know what she was talking about, so. Let’s do it.” 

Aziraphale nodded, swallowing deeply, then glanced back at the room full of plants. “It’s almost like being back in the garden. Oh.” He flushed a little, and Crowley wasn’t entirely sure he liked whatever little realisation he was having. Instead of commenting on it, though, he gave Crowley a tender look. “Crowley, can we please . . . would you like to go to bed?” 

“Yeah, I would.” 

Crowley’s bedroom was dark, and they didn’t bother with turning on the lights as they kissed and fell onto the expanse of silk sheets. Crowley let his fingers do the seeing. He unbuttoned every last one of Aziraphale’s many buttons – his waistcoat, the shirt underneath – and pulled off the garments with care, and Aziraphale’s hands on him did the same. Once undressed together, Crowley thrilled at the feeling of the angel’s warm skin, the familiar and yet always astonishing landscape of him, the smooth round places, the strong muscle underneath. He kissed down Aziraphale’s chest, feeling his snake senses heighten, aroused by the darkness and the warmth of the angel. Crowley’s tongue lengthened in his mouth. He darted it out to taste, reveling in the way that the angel sighed and shook underneath him. 

The angel’s prick was hard, and Crowley rubbed it, kissing along its length to the heavy bollocks underneath, which he took into his mouth one after the other. His own effort softened and transformed, and he reached down to touch himself, moaning as he entered himself with two fingers. Aziraphale’s hands were in his hair. Crowley started to suck him, gradually building a rhythm. He felt warm and safe between Aziraphale’s spread thighs, and Aziraphale was making little moaning sounds, thrusting into his mouth gently. It had been a long time – far too long for both of them. Crowley was more than ready. He looked up at Aziraphale in the darkness and paused. 

“Crowley? My dear, are you quite all—”

“M’fine. Angel, what do you want to do?” 

“Anything – anything. Please.” 

“Ok. You just stay where you are. Stay just like this.” 

He slithered up into a sitting position and climbed astride Aziraphale’s hips, then took his slippery cock, guided it into the hot clench of his cunt, and sank down with a groan. Aziraphale’s hands came to rest on his hips, and he could feel the angel’s prick throb inside of him. He rocked forwards and backwards experimentally, adjusting to the thick length. In the darkness, he could see only a faint shimmer in the angel’s eyes, the outline of his face, a hint of his opened mouth. Liking the thought of it, he leaned down for a kiss and felt the delicious shift against his clit. He rubbed himself there as their tongues tangled, and Aziraphale hitched his hips, desperate for friction. 

He pushed himself up again and started to ride, rubbing Aziraphale’s little nipples into hard peaks with his thumbs as he rose and fell, slapping down again and again onto the angel’s rigid cock. Every filling was perfect. Crowley reached between them to touch the place where they were joined, feel the slippery heat of Aziraphale stretching him. He reached lower to cup and squeeze the angel’s full, taut bollocks, and Aziraphale very nearly wailed. 

There was a heady sense of power in having the angel underneath him like this, their mutual pleasure reliant on his every movement. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see Aziraphale’s expression of pleasure, his scrunched forehead and the desperate twist of his mouth, and he knew that he was close. He also realised that he hadn’t said the words he’d tried to tell Aziraphale in countless places and with countless substitute gestures, from the first snow to the steamy baths and every place they’d met in between. 

“I love you,” he said to Aziraphale in the dark, and threaded their fingers together. He kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles and brought his hand to his chest, and he flexed his thighs and bore down as the surge gathered between his legs. The dark room seemed suddenly flooded with light. 

At first, he thought it was just a trick in his mind, but then he looked down, and the angel was glowing – not only the halo, but his whole being seemed made of light, and inside that light were a thousand, thousand eyes, and inside those were a million suns and the sum of all that had ever been, and ever would be. Crowley gasped, nearly blinded, and his own body responded to the angel’s brilliance, and he shuddered, suddenly aware that they were moving together on two planes, corporeal and incorporeal, and that the angel was truly seeing for the first time all of the darkness and all of the places that hurt, and all of the brightness that was still there, and all of the love – the impossible, aching love, for humanity, but most of all, for Aziraphale. 

Crowley cried out in a voice that was human and inhuman, and the angel echoed the cry. They twined around and inside of each other, on top of the bed, and above and below, and Crowley could no longer tell where one of them began and the other ended. The pleasure was like nothing either had ever experienced before. They were united, and completed, and both of them saw and heard the other, and they accepted what they saw and heard, and they loved, too. 

It was too intense to last long, but before Crowley was recalled to the body – he – she – they inhabited – Aziraphale whispered – and they knew what they had to do. The release burst forth and then, like the sea and the wind rushing together all at once, Crowley pressed through and beyond and inside, and then, when he blinked open, still gasping, he was Aziraphale. The room was dark again.

“Crowley?” the angel whispered in Crowley’s own voice. 

“Here, angel,” he said in the angel’s. 

“Let there be light.” 

And there was. Crowley looked up at the angel – at his own corporation, and found that they were still joined. It was a very odd feeling, to be inside Aziraphale, when he had only seconds before had the pleasure of feeling Aziraphale inside himself. It was arousing, too, in a strange way, and Crowley felt his – Aziraphale’s – cock give an interested twitch. Aziraphale looked down at him with yellow eyes and smiled. 

They gazed at one another for some long moments, and Crowley tried to hold on to the connection he’d felt when they were in their true forms. It was still there, but softened by the skin of humanity they both wore. Which was probably for the best, because Crowley was pretty sure he’d have discorporated if he stayed like that much longer. As wonderful as it was, it was also terrifying to lay oneself so bare, and to see someone else so clearly. 

Aziraphale was the first to break the silence. “It worked.” 

“I guess so. Wow. That was . . . something.” 

“It certainly was.” Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him. Crowley felt the warm rush and mess as they separated, then quickly miracled it away. “I’d like to do it again sometime. You are utterly beautiful.” 

“You weren’t, ah – freaked out by the fangs, and the venom, and the scales and the heads—” 

“I don’t think you see yourself very clearly, my dear. I only saw the one I love.” 

Crowley felt himself flushing – it was something Aziraphale’s corporation had always done readily. “Angel, don’t say stuff like that.” 

“What, kind things? I am sorry, but you’re going to have to get used to it. If . . . all goes well.”  
That little reminder drew them both back to the matter at hand and the battle they still had to fight, this time apart. They spent an hour or so getting the intonations of their voices right. The physicality was more difficult, but Aziraphale did his best to saunter and Crowley tried to sit up straight. In the end, they figured that none of their former colleagues knew them well enough to notice the smaller details. 

It was nearly dawn when they settled down with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits in Crowley’s kitchen. In just a couple of hours, they would separate and then meet later in the park – a perfect lure to those who would surely be watching them.

“They probably know we are here together, right now,” Crowley said. Once, it had been their greatest fear. 

“Well, whatever happens, after today, we’re not hiding anymore. I . . . shan’t be ashamed or afraid of being your friend. Your lover. Your . . . whatever you would wish us to be.” 

Crowley felt the laughter bubbling up inside of him, and it came out in Aziraphale’s lovely chortle. It was ridiculous to be so happy when everything was just as likely to go tits up. But Crowley had always been an optimist at heart, and he had plans. “I’ll remember that, angel.” 

“I’ll trust that you do.” Aziraphale sipped his tea, a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and Crowley recognized the expression as one he had tried to suppress for the last thousand years, whenever they were together. With a warm feeling in his belly that had nothing to do with the tea, he realised the angel was making plans of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who have stuck with me! I hope this chapter helped to soothe the sadz from the previous two. Only one more to go!


	7. England, 2027

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is hiding something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here we are - I hope you enjoy the last chapter! 
> 
> Thank you again to my lovely beta, SillyGoose <3

Crowley was hiding something. 

Aziraphale knew he was hiding something, because for the last three weeks, he’d been evasive whenever Aziraphale asked if he was hiding something, but he hadn’t outright denied it. For a demon, he was an exceptionally bad liar.

It wasn’t a bad something; that much Aziraphale was sure of. Crowley had a twinkle in his eye, and was exhibiting the kind of nervous, twitchy, unable to sit still behavior he displayed whenever he was excited about something. He had also been notably absent from the bookshop every Saturday for the last three weeks, and had failed to convincingly account for his whereabouts. 

Aziraphale wondered if maybe Crowley were planning to propose.

It was a thought easily dismissed at first. Aziraphale had never really thought about marriage in the conventional human sense before. Since they had first openly confessed their love to each other, they had spent eight blissful years together – save for the troublesome stretch Crowley had spent asleep in his flat avoiding that unfortunate modern pestilence that had arrived inconveniently after the world failed to end. 

_“I just can’t deal with another plague, angel. I’m sorry – it isn’t you. I love you. If you want to come visit you can – any time.”_

_“But you’ll be asleep!”_

_“I’ll wake up to snog you.”_

Aziraphale had rolled his eyes and finally given up, and Crowley had gotten his way – and yes, Aziraphale had ventured over for a sleepy snog on occasion, but since then, they had spent every day together. They had gone on vacations to the south of France, to Chile, and to Japan; they had moved essential items from each of their flats to the other, until Aziraphale was almost entirely comfortable at Crowley’s, and Crowley at Aziraphale’s. They had dined at the Ritz and in small, crowded restaurants, and walked holding hands through St James’s Park. They had made love in every position, and with every conceivable combination of efforts, and they had lain in each other’s arms and talked about the future – including, most importantly, how much time they had before their former colleagues decided to wage war on Earth, and on them. 

In short, they were already in every important way mated – paired for life, or for eternity. A silly ring and ceremony meant nothing. 

Anyway, Aziraphale was fairly sure Crowley felt the same way about marriage, though they had never discussed it. But Crowley kept evading his questions, and Aziraphale kept wondering. Crowley had generally retired from demonic activity, but Aziraphale knew he couldn’t sometimes help amusing himself with pranks now and again. Gluing coins to the sidewalk only took so much time, however. Maybe Crowley was making plans for a trip, or creating a new species of flower – but then, why wouldn’t he have told Aziraphale? 

One evening, about a week before Christmas, Aziraphale went to hang Crowley’s leather jacket (which he had haphazardly discarded on the bookshop sofa) onto the coat rack (where it belonged), and felt a curious bulge in one of the pockets. Crowley had fairly launched himself from the sofa to stop Aziraphale from looking, which he had not planned to do – he wasn’t a snoop! But Crowley had stopped him in any case. Was there a ring in the pocket? Nothing else seemed to make sense – it had to be a proposal.

That evening, as Crowley snored in bed and Aziraphale passed the time reading in the chair next to him, he found himself losing sense of the words on the page. His mind kept drifting back to the pocket, and to thoughts of marriage. What would it be like to call Crowley his husband, his wife, his spouse? To wear his ring, and for Crowley to wear Aziraphale’s? His chest filled with warmth, and as he looked at his beloved as he lay sleeping, his lips slightly parted, one leg in and one leg out of the covers, he was overwhelmed with such powerful love, he felt his corporeal form could barely contain it. They had hidden for so long, from even themselves – and Aziraphale had done, especially. Perhaps it would be cathartic for them to make a public claim on each other in front of Heaven, Hell, and the Earth besides? 

He found that the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of wearing Crowley’s ring. He looked down at his bare left ring finger and imagined it there. Indeed, he could be quite easily convinced. 

Crowley woke up the next day, and Aziraphale was there ready with a cup of black coffee and a kiss. He often treated Crowley to such pleasures in the morning, but today perhaps he was acting suspiciously himself.

Crowley took a sip of his coffee and raised an eyebrow, appraising him. “You didn’t look in the jacket, did you, angel?” 

“No! I wouldn’t dare violate your confidence. What have you got in there anyway – you haven’t lifted something from the British Museum again?” 

“I only did that the one time! And all that stuff is already stolen, you know that.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but Crowley was no more forthcoming, and Aziraphale decided he would be patient and give Crowley the time he needed to put his plan into action. In fact, he decided that he would use the time to purchase his own ring for Crowley, so when the moment arose, he could present his lovely demon with a token of his own. How very romantic it would be! 

He went out to the shops the following day. The streets were chaotic with holiday shoppers jostling for presents, which reminded Aziraphale why they had been spending more and more time outside of London these days, but in a little jewelry shop tucked away on a side street in Bloomsbury, he expected to find the perfect thing, and so he did. It was a thick band in burnished gold that reminded him of Crowley’s eyes, with a pattern that could have been snakeskin if you looked very closely. He requested it be engraved, and while he waited he gave extra blessings to the other customers – in particular, to one young couple who were picking out rings and clearly expecting. 

As the woman at the register tied up the package and handed it over, she gave him a little smile. “This is a very unique ring. I actually had never noticed it in the store before. How curious.” 

“Yes, that is very interesting,” Aziraphale said with an innocent smile, and then he took his purchase and went home. 

After that, the anticipation only increased. Aziraphale found himself almost breathless when Crowley came into the room, sure that each moment would be the one. He hid the ring in the inner lining breast pocket of his waistcoat to keep it close at hand and to avoid detection by a curious demon – who was known to snoop on occasion. They went out to dinner and ordered a bottle of champagne, and he was sure it would happen then – perhaps a ring would arrive with dessert? But no, there was no ring, only chocolate mousse, and Crowley seemed more at ease than he had in the past several weeks, which was simply confusing. 

On Christmas Eve, they exchanged small presents and spent a pleasant evening together, but nothing else occurred, and Aziraphale began to wonder if he had simply let his imagination run away from him. The ring was burning a proverbial hole in his pocket, but if Crowley didn’t seem inclined to make a move of his own, perhaps Aziraphale should make his own overture? 

The next morning, however, Crowley declared that he wanted to take a drive. 

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked as he was bundled into his coat, and then ushered towards the door. 

“It’s a surprise.” Crowley squeezed both his shoulders and then slipped his glasses back on. Outside, it was frigid, and Aziraphale wrapped his tartan scarf more tightly around his neck. He wasn’t sure where Crowley was taking them, but he hoped it wasn’t a long drive. 

Aziraphale slipped and nearly fell as they made their way across the street to where Crowley had parked the Bentley. Crowley caught his arm just in time and led him to the passenger door. 

“The roads are terribly icy, my dear. Do be careful. You know we can’t get discorporated now.” He shuddered to think of what would happen if either of them ended up at their former head offices. 

“Don’t worry, angel. I’ve got it all under control. I won’t drive too fast, I promise.” 

“That’s what you always say.”

“But this time I really mean it.” Crowley gave him a cheeky smile, kissed him quickly, and then nearly tripped himself as he made his way back to the other side of the car. 

They got on – not terribly fast, but just fast enough to please Crowley without giving Aziraphale paroxysms – and were soon out of the city heading south on familiar roads. They often took day or weekend trips to the seaside, but seldomly in winter, and Aziraphale became more and more curious as they got closer to the coast. Perhaps Crowley had booked a weekend getaway at a bed and breakfast to make his proposal? But then why wouldn’t he have told Aziraphale to pack a bag? 

At around noon, the sun poked through the clouds, and it turned into a lovely, if chilly, day. They were one of the few travelers on the road, and the frosted, grey fields glimmered, groups of huddled sheep dotting the pastures along the sides of the road. The gentle sloping hills revealed little towns here and there, and Aziraphale distracted himself by humming along with the be-bop Crowley was playing – something by women who were violent or some such. 

“All right, angel. We’re almost there. Close your eyes. On second thought – best miracle something to cover them with. I don’t know if I can trust you.” 

“Oh, pish posh.” But still, he accepted the strip of cloth Crowley passed him and dutifully tied it around his eyes. 

His anticipation had him leaning forward although there was nothing to see, and his stomach swarmed with nervous butterflies. When Crowley finally parked the car an interminable time later, Aziraphale was instructed to stay put as Crowley came around to lead him wherever it was they were going. 

He inhaled the salt of the sea and the cold winter air and held Crowley’s hand. Some sort of plant brushed against his trousers, and their feet crunched on gravel. He was faintly buzzing with curiosity as Crowley started to fiddle with something that sounded like . . . a key? And then swore and snapped his fingers. A door swung open. 

“Okay,” Crowley said. “Here we are. Home sweet home.” 

The blindfold was untied and discarded, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply as he recognized the door – the cottage. It was the cottage they had stayed at eight years ago when they’d felt the need to make themselves scarce from London for a time, and to explore their newfound freedom together. Aziraphale had adored it then, and he did so now – it was quaint, with a stone façade and creeping vines, a lovely little garden filled with flowers, and a view of the sea from the second storey. It had been sold soon after they rented it, but Aziraphale had always wanted to return. 

“What do you mean, home?” 

“I mean, I bought it. It’s ours. Our weekend getaway, or our permanent abode, whichever you’d prefer. I’ve packed your bag in the boot. We can stay all weekend if you like, try it out.” 

“Oh – Crowley!” 

Aziraphale took a tentative step from the hallway into the sitting room and noted that it was refurbished. Gone were the generic landscape paintings on the walls and the knick-knacks cluttering the bookshelves. It was tastefully decorated, modern and yet antique in furnishings of dark chestnut and cranberry, a combination that served as an homage to both of their styles. It smelled of lavender, and Aziraphale noticed a vase with fresh flowers on the side table. 

“Do you like it?” Crowley was standing nearby with his thumbs hooked into his pockets. 

“Of course I do. It’s—” As Aziraphale turned around in wonder, he noticed the paintings – the ones Leonardo had done of them both, framed and placed side by side on the far wall, away from the fireplace. His breath caught in his throat. 

“Figured it was time to break those out of the safe. Hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all. It’s all . . . it’s astounding. So this is what you’ve been hiding. I’m so silly. I thought—” He broke off, and felt his face flush a little. He was slightly embarrassed, and he wasn’t sure he wanted Crowley to know why. After all, this was an incredibly lovely gift – even more lovely and meaningful than the one he’d been hoping for. He loved it, and he loved Crowley, and he didn’t want the demon to think he was disappointed. 

“What did you think?” Crowley took his hand again. Aziraphale was fretting a little, his free hand nervously plucking at his coat. 

“Oh, it’s terribly foolish. I . . .” Aziraphale shook his head, coming to a decision. “Well. I thought you were going to propose.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Oh. _Oh._ ” 

“It was keys in your jacket that you didn’t want me to find, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah. Sorry – I had no idea that’s what you thought. Stupid of me.” Crowley looked suddenly guilty, and that wouldn’t do at all. It wasn’t his fault Aziraphale had gotten notions.

“No, no, none of that my dear. It’s just that . . . I may have made some plans as well.” Aziraphale bit his lower lip and reached into his coat, finding the ring warm from the heat of his body. He held it out, and Crowley looked at it with surprise and a slight flush of his own. 

“You want to get married, like humans?” 

“To be honest, I hadn’t thought too much about it until I thought you were going to ask me. And it seemed like a rather nice idea. Not in a church of course. It could be . . . nondenominational, I believe is the term.” 

Crowley swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I . . . wow. Yes, that sounds. Er. Really nice.” 

Realising he had to ask properly, and that Crowley was floundering to get ahold of himself, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Anthony J. Crowley, whatever the J stands for. I love you. Will you be my spouse?” 

“Fuck yes, of course.” 

“All right. Good.” Aziraphale felt giddy and almost shy as he slid the ring onto Crowley’s finger. It fit perfectly, because he believed it would, and it looked lovely against Crowley’s skin in the warm light of the cottage. Crowley removed his glasses to look at it more closely, and Aziraphale watched with pleasure as Crowley’s small smile broadened when he noticed the scales. “Do you like it?” 

“It’s perfect. You do realise you’ve totally stolen my thunder, angel.” 

“Oh yes, I’m sorry. I should have waited until—”

“Kidding! I’m just kidding!” Crowley swept him into a hug, and they kissed and clung to each other, two foolish, ancient, occult and ethereal beings who had just become engaged in their new seaside cottage. 

Much later, after Aziraphale had taken some time to explore, appreciating all of the little details Crowley had gotten exactly right – the kitchen filled with all of Aziraphale’s favorite treats — and a few he had gotten wrong – the mugs were much too small for cocoa — and they had eaten dinner in town, they found themselves in bed. 

Crowley was between Aziraphale’s legs, slowly driving him out of his mind. His prick ached as Crowley bobbed up and down on it, his lips sliding over the slick length. Aziraphale fisted the sheets as Crowley swallowed him down, his long tongue wrapping around the bottom of his shaft. Crowley’s pupils were blown so wide, they were almost round, and his hips hitched against the soft linen bedsheets. All was quiet save for the sound of their bodies, the wet slip of Crowley’s mouth, their mingled, laboured breathing, and if Aziraphale concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear the distant roar of the ocean. The lights were dim, and Crowley had lit a few candles, which cast their flickering glow over the bed. It was lovely. 

Crowley was lovely – he had always been a sight to see in the nude with his long graceful limbs and easy confidence – and sometimes, when he began to lose control, his body became even more serpentine. Sometimes, even scales appeared. Crowley didn’t seem to notice, but to Aziraphale it was arousing – not the sight of the scales in and of themselves, but the idea that Crowley was so far gone he let his snake form bleed through. 

Tonight, he had been sucking Aziraphale for some time with no relief for either of them, and a shimmer of black and red appeared on his hips when the light was just so, coalescing and growing until a wide swath of scales, more than Aziraphale had ever seen before, covered his back from arse to shins. Crowley groaned, eyes slipping closed, and he caressed the space underneath Aziraphale’s bollocks, teasing the sensitive entrance. 

Aziraphale watched, sometimes catching a glimpse of Crowley’s own reddened prick. More than anything he wanted Crowley inside of him, but he was content to wait. He was being pampered and indulged, and when Crowley was in one of those moods, he was impossible to resist. 

The scales spread further, and Aziraphale opened his legs wider. He was balancing on a precipice, and Crowley seemed to know exactly when he was ready to fall over – he would pull back, change tactics, and the imminent release would recede. 

Aziraphale groaned and tried to thrust, but Crowley’s hands held his hips firmly, even as his own worked slowly against the mattress. His prick looked as though it must be fit to burst, and then Aziraphale blinked, and there were suddenly – two. Aziraphale let out a surprised breath, hoping to catch a closer look. 

Crowley looked up at him. “What isss it?” 

“Crowley – your – ah.” Aziraphale could only gesture, eyes wide.

Crowley glimpsed down, hitching his hips as he did, and noticed the scales and the state of his genitals. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” He groped for the sheets, and Aziraphale realised with horror that Crowley was ashamed, that he was trying to cover himself. 

“Don’t be embarrassed, my love. I’d like to see you.” 

“Ah. All right.” 

Crowley lowered his arm and dropped the sheet, and Aziraphale pushed himself up, feasting his eyes on the sight of Crowley’s pricks. They were not so very different from human, but he suspected that was only because Crowley was now aware and controlling the appearance of his form. Two of them rose proudly side by side from the reddish thatch of hair, their bases conjoined. Black and red scales now covered Crowley’s thighs, and his pricks glistened, redder and wetter looking than his usual human phallus, and with noticeable ridges that Aziraphale imagined would feel quiet lovely inside. Arousal surged within him, and he reached out to touch them, taking one in each hand. There was no need to slick them – they were hard and pleasing in his grip, and he gave each a tentative stroke. 

“Oh, fuck, angel. That feels incredible.” 

“Does it?” Aziraphale’s own erection was throbbing, but he also felt something within him shift, a different form of desire taking over, and before he knew it, his effort had changed into a more easily accommodating formation. 

Crowley noticed right away and reached out to touch him where he was wet and swollen. “Aziraphale.” 

“Yes. Yes, my love. Please.” 

“You’re sure?” 

Aziraphale nodded, so eager he could hardly wait. He realised now that in spite of their regular and varied intimate moments, Crowley had been holding back this last part of himself, and he was being given a wonderful gift. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” Crowley sounded almost drunk as Aziraphale continued to stroke him, fascinated by the way each felt in his hands. He wondered what it would be like to service Crowley when he was like this – to get on his knees and take them into his mouth, one and then the other. 

“Why did you never say?” 

Crowley’s hips flexed, and his long tongue flickered out to wet his lips. “Maybe I was embarrasssssed. Thought you would think it was sssstrange.” 

“My dear, I don’t know where you’ve been for the last six thousand years, but I hope you know by now that I love whatever we do, and however you look, no matter how odd it might seem to others.” A he spoke, Aziraphale got into position and Crowley kneeled between his legs, his pricks bobbing as he did so. 

“And I love the way you look.”

Aziraphale flushed, looking down at his own body. He was so much plumper than Crowley, round at the stomach and full at the hip. He knew that Crowley had always found his form attractive, but it was very pleasing to hear it out loud. 

“Crowley, don’t make me wait.” 

“Are you sure – you want them both? At the same time?” Crowley held himself at the base and rubbed the tips of his cocks over Aziraphale’s slick entrance. Aziraphale couldn’t help wriggling to get closer, hoping to tease Crowley into action. 

“Yes, please. I want all of you.” 

“It might feel a little uncomfortable. I dunno if it’ll work. I’ve never done this before.” 

Aziraphale bit his lower lip. “I can take whatever you have for me.” 

“You’re such a good husband,” Crowley said, and a little thrill went through Aziraphale at the word. Crowley leaned forward and, bracing himself on one arm, he pushed the head of the first of his cocks inside. He gave an experimental thrust, watching Aziraphale’s face all the while. Aziraphale gave him an encouraging smile and gasped as the other followed immediately after, stretching him as full as he had ever felt before. He was so ready there was no pain, only the bliss of sensation rolling over him, taking him to the edge once again. He squirmed, moaning as Crowley moved his hips and sank deeper, and then deeper still, until the thick girth of his base was snug against him. They kissed shakily, breathing together as they both adjusted. 

“Ssssomeone’s sake, this feels good. M’not gonna last long.” Crowley looked down at him with hazy eyes. “We should have done this ages ago.” 

“Well, I do believe it was _you_ holding out on me – but yes, I agree.” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley began to move. He felt the telltale flutter deep in his belly, lighting up the nerves in his groin, and he held on, urging Crowley to fill him again and again. Crowley couldn’t withdraw very far, but that suited Aziraphale quite well. The friction was wonderful. Crowley seemed to be enjoying himself very much. The sounds he was making were more snakelike than human, but his eyes were familiar and filled with love. Aziraphale held on to his sinewy shoulders, throwing his head back as Crowley bit and nipped at his throat. 

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale felt his release build to the point of no return. He cried out and wrapped his legs tightly around Crowley’s hips, grinding against him as the urgent pleasure crested. Crowley drove deep and stayed there, letting Aziraphale ride out the last of his release, but when he was finished, he relaxed and opened himself up to Crowley. 

“So gorgeous,” Crowley whispered in his ear. “That good for you?” 

“Yes, my dear. I don’t think I ever want to stop.” 

“Don’t give me ideassss, angel.” 

Crowley reared up again on his knees and dragged Aziraphale’s hips closer, so that Aziraphale was nearly in his lap. This provided a better view for them both, and Aziraphale watched as Crowley entered him again and again, his hips snapping more quickly. He was getting deeper, filling Aziraphale even more beautifully now that he was relaxed, and Aziraphale could feel the ridges on both cocks stimulating him again. Crowley reached down and tweaked Aziraphale’s jiggling nipples, ran his hand up and down Aziraphale’s body, rubbed his mons and the place where they were joined until he was burning with desire again. The gold ring on his hand glimmered, and Aziraphale thought of the inscription inside of it, which he knew Crowley had not yet noticed. Aziraphale had never felt so loved, so coveted. 

“Fuck. I think I’m going to come,” Crowley said, groaning the last word as his eyes clenched shut and his mouth dropped open. His hair, which he was wearing slightly longer again, brushed his shoulders as he tipped his head back, and Aziraphale longed to run his fingers through it. It went on and on, there was so much to give. Aziraphale was happy to receive it all, and Crowley was so far lost in his own pleasure, Aziraphale reached between them to bring himself the rest of the way. 

Feeling exhausted and as well used as he ever had, Aziraphale lay with Crowley in his arms once it was all over. Crowley had resumed his customary shape, but not before Aziraphale had gazed his fill and made Crowley promise this wouldn’t be the last time. They had darkened the room and opened the curtains so they could see the stars, and Crowley was quiet, gazing out as Aziraphale rubbed circles on his scalp. It had been a very long day, and even Aziraphale felt his eyelids getting heavy. 

“So,” Crowley said sleepily, “what do you think? A permanent move? You’ve been complaining about London more often than not, and I know you’d rather not sell your books. There’s no reason to keep up the pretense.” 

“I suppose you’re right. But I do love my shop.” Aziraphale’s heart gave a little twinge when he thought of packing it up, or worse yet, selling it. 

“You can keep the shop, angel. You can do anything you like. Anyway, we don’t have to decide right now. The cottage is ours – we can stay, we can go back when you want. No one’s stopping us.” 

_For now,_ Aziraphale thought, but he said, “All right, my love. We’ll see how it goes.” 

“ _See how it goes?_ ” Crowley laughed. “Never in my existence did I ever think I’d hear you say that.” 

“Well, people . . . er, ethereal beings, change.” 

“No they don’t.” Crowley raised his head and looked at him. “Only you. You’re the only one.” 

“I suppose that’s why you love me,” Aziraphale said, teasing. 

“One of the reasons. Anyway, where should we get married? Do you want to fly to Vegas? I’ve always wanted to get married in Vegas.” 

Aziraphale slapped his arm. “Crowley!” 

Crowley sighed. “I suppose you’ll want to invite guests – Tracy, Adam, Pepper, what’s-his-name, and what’s-his-name. Newt and Anathema, their kids.” 

“I suppose the children should be invited.” Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to sigh. 

“And Shadwell will want to come as well, whether we like it or not. Maybe we best elope.” 

“Elope?” 

“Not to Vegas – we could go to France. You love France. Or Italy.” 

“That’s true. Italy is lovely in the springtime.” 

“We could do it here. In the garden. You could wear a white suit. Maybe I’ll get a dress made. I’ve always fancied a lace gown with a plunging back.” 

“Oh, Crowley, that’s a lovely idea. Yes, let’s do.” 

“All right, it’s settled.” 

They were quiet again, and the moon shone through the opened window. Soon after, Crowley drifted to sleep, but Aziraphale stayed awake watching him and watching the stars. He didn’t talk to the Almighty as often as he once had, but he didn’t love Her less. He just knew that he would never really understand Her, and that it wasn’t meant that he should. He did know, however, that no matter what happened in the future, no matter what Heaven or Hell threw at them – if they did at all – Crowley would be there beside him. Soon, Crowley would notice the engraving on his ring, and he would know. _I choose you._ They would face their fate together, and they would triumph or fall together, and no matter the result, he would never regret his choice. 

The moon shone down, and Aziraphale smiled, and finally slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is a wrap! Thanks for reading!


End file.
